WHAT ARE YOUR WORDS WORTH?

I wandered lonely as a funeral shroud, shamefully sucking each hapless cloud, putting them to paper as cotton wool: what an obvious originality cull. But is it any worse that your repetitive green; the only symbol you have to display jealousy, or your infinite love prose, hued in red, do you really think that’s better instead?
For these words and their meanings are words in themselves and into the cannon our minds often delve and we’re searching for new ways to say the same thing; I’ll try hard not to use the image of ‘spring’. By the looks on your faces, you seem confused perhaps unclear are the symbols I’ve used? You see, words are like daffodils, in bulbs and dormant, fighting off parasites, a daily torment. And parasites represent clichés, forever worming their way into phrase but if you work hard to protect all your words; make sure the bulbs are safe from the birds, then what a glorious emotion you’ll feel when you order ideas to create the ideal and out of the ground just like ink out your quill will sprout the shining daffodil.

This yellow no longer has hue of decay but looks to me like a pleasing bouquet. And oft when on my couch and say: “There’s no worth to words without joy of word play.”