Words, by Steve Moore

Words are the truest illusion I have ever known
and in a land in which nothing is real
they hold the darkness of thought at bay
and give silence to the ceaseless noise of emptiness.

Words are my only friend
when my friends seem like
something less than acquaintances.

Words are stranger than any fiction of the mind
and more factual than any numerical account of reality.

They give rise to what we can not spell out.

They are the last best hope
of finding the soul’s inner foreverhood.

Words are the doorway though which my mind lingers
and waits for some opening.

They tie me to the earth
and break apart metaphors
to reveal what was there all along.

Words stream into us
from where we do not know,
their source is hidden,
their true extent can not be lain onto paper.

They are the echo of the original impulse,
an anchor in an endless sea of particles,
pregnant with the truth of all things.

And when the night sun finally sets
on all the lands of perception,
then there will still stand the word,
a pale reflection of what has gone beyond
and of what is about to rise again.