Words

 

To whom do I address these words

in my dark and silent room,

half asleep, and wondering if the next moment

will arrive whole and sensible?

 

It is the cosmic audience of space

from which I have evolved

and to it I present my thoughts and words,

as if they are as important as light

and meteors.

 

Words, given easily and with the fluidity of a stream,

possess an honesty, in private, that echoes the blood,

and the beating of the heart,

and perhaps can thwart the illness

of a lonely moment , or the absence

of a friend.

 

They must be given like walking easily

down familiar paths, but with a daring

that might belie the fear of monsters

lurking in the forests.

 

They must be so purely honest

that beside honey, they are superior.

 

They must be so personal

that beside choruses of others,

they must be overbearing.

 

Words are not only symbols of meaning,

they are pieces of mental flesh,

cast out like seeds.

 

Take them seriously,

or deny one’s role in the substance

of creating the tapestry of our species.