The chosen word

I was but a boy

when I first learnt to read

Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass

was but a dream

I was just a lad

when the pages tuned in me

and meaning became

the precipice of being

I was my Father’s son

when I first reached the sand

and words of pragmatism

could be heard

To become a man

meant choosing when

to beat the drum – only

the riled ended up unfurled

And once manhood had come

my silent whisper could be heard –

to rise amongst the many

with the carefully chosen word.

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