The Writing Class

In the writing class we capture memories

Corralled and hobbled like prairie mustangs

We pen them in according to their colour, age and size

Taming them to break their spirits

Forcing them to learn new tricks.

They become our servants docile and less feisty

Hooves shod and harness polished

But deep down we know they will be always wild at heart

They will never truly become what we wish they were

We have turned them into a cabaret

A circus of performing words.

Many come to love the limelight

Can’t wait to promenade before a crowd

But ninety nine percent escape our net

And roam out there unfettered and unbound

Visiting fleetly at dead of night or in the car 

Occasionally crossing our line of vision before

Melting back into their wilderness.

Fleeting memories that will not be roped and broken

By our so-called writer’s craft.