Words can mean anything

in how they’re said,

in how they are thrown

like rose petals on a bed

or rocks that strike and wound.


Words are the tools that

open shut doors

or quietly soothe

the human wounds

with the slide of

a tongue or the

grip of a pen.


Words form the ideas

from inner to the outer seen,

and launch us into eternity

and pull us back

to earth again with a

flow and surprise,

expected but unique.


Words reveal the frailty

and the divinity of being human,

and words live in the crevices

and the expansive

spaces of universes

created and destroyed.


For all that we are

and all that there is

exists in words

that form our fictions

and carry our dreads

and reminder us constantly

about the shortness

and the unfairness of life.


Words exist on a page,

on a screen, in a dream

about what is possible

and what can never be true

except in the stories

that we create with words.