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Each time I check to see what I have written,
The columns fly past of titles that hold
Each the many words stoppered, each now cold
In storage, that once sizzled, glittering
Like minted coin, opaque now, littering
The space it occupies, like something sold,
And lying useless; it's as though, once told,
A step we take; by the unknown we're smitten,
And like the days it draws, the evening's flame
Extinguishes, the leap into its realm
Is all man lives for, but without attain,
Though words bear witness, though he sign his name,
A dearth of words is proven in the same,
As still, and wordless, finds himself again. |
