Word Army

Dear Live Poets
I am not renowned for my poetic skill and my fiction writing leaves much to be desired yet there is this word army within me, gathering in the wings. What am I to do?

Like light moonbeams they quietly gather,
creeping through the cast iron curtains.
Treading lightly, the whispered word patterns silently amass,
Stealthily emerging from within the lofty mansion of the gods.
The rebel army forms a vivid word picture.

Disciplined, they gather resolutely in the darkened,
labyrinthine corridors of the psyche,
forming sturdy battalions.
With banners raised, they prepare to march, ready to invade distant lands.
Graceful, curling, silky, smooth little words, skilfully dancing pirouettes,
performing acrobatic feats lead the way with agility.
While taut, tense, cryptic vipers,
having skilfully twisted themselves from within the invisible chains,
Hephaistos so meticulously fashioned in his anvil,
self-righteously form an indomitable rearguard.

United the word warriors stand erect, on the mountaintops, awaiting the bugle call.
In unison they surge forward, gathering momentum as they ride into the valleys.
The word army, united, buoying each other, singing, marches in tight formation.
In rhythm, the armed force gathers momentum,
vigorously occupying the foreign, virgin, white unblemished soil of the New World.