You can twist and turn them round
and then pretend they are profound,
but words are just like prison bars
constructing cages out of sound
we carry with us, though we are
fine specks of dust from the small stars
flung out and free in space and time.
We dare not travel quite that far.
We seek the edges, so we climb
until no longer in our prime,
and then, collapse back into sleep,
almost like death, but more sublime.
We use our words to laugh and weep,
and waste them, thinking they are cheap.
By this illusion we are bound,
just echoes in a boundless deep.
27 Jun 2025
© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.
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