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.
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.
Is no more than a word spoken by love
In the deepest space giving way for a word which cannot be spoken.
In a world of chaos brings only angst
But this love
The final Word.
And it cannot be