lamentina

Many castles, 

I have heard described

to pierce the mistery of You,

which were never built or seen,

only words,

used to borrow hopes

– like gold to a fool

or drinking beer alone

in a cold afternoon –

There is no language nor words

That do justice to Truth

Words are artifacts,

often misused,

to shatter or bond.

Words of pain,

born out of sheer fear and shame,

words like swords to hurt

yet smooth like velvet to the heart

Words of sorrow, 

you can try to hold to

but what does that bring you?

Not the morning you lost

but only regret, at a high cost.

Words given, and misgiven,

words to screw,

but other words, too, chords,

tuning you out of the blue.

Words of love

distracting from quiet indifference

forcing you to into presence.

Words to forgive,

words to amend

words which are essential

to the End.

Gifts of words, 

blossoming in silence,

rare like winter flowers –

Words of Truth, tangible symbols,

yet three times detached from you.

You, Me, People

long for words,

Craving the spinning and weaving around,

Yet we don’t listen!

Distant islands, bottled in thick glass,

Like naked children,

We paint the world with our fragility,

and cry, and ask why

“It takes time to joy,

and seconds to destroy

for we don’t always respect our toys.”

And what remains of the spring, if i may,

is the fiddle game of men and cities,

and us, in the middle, we bleed,

words of blessing, and pray.