Word seem far away when writing line

By line down the page.

Over and over again eyes skim to understand,

But the words seem dry; they seem bland

Against the white stained structure that cannot even stand straight against the constant, incessant

Abuse of the hand.


And so no one knows.

It’s a silent understanding when the lines between read far more than the perfectly formed paragraph.

So it is with love.

Choppy.

Divided.

Understated love.

Words make things organized, structure, bored.

When there are no words? It is love, my friend.


And so that’s why the final, ultimate, authoritative Word of Truth is not a paragraph but a person.

The embodiment of love incarnate.

Finally it is no longer

An empty word to fill the void of white space.

Greater grandeur

Is no more than a word spoken by love

In the deepest space giving way for a word which cannot be spoken.


Communication

In a world of chaos brings only angst

But this love

Is

The final Word.

And it cannot be

understood.