Words are like sifted shingle
surf-tossed on the shoreline;
the waves of life wash over them
and they are honed, scattered

Your words to me
are like the moon:
my vast inner seas are
shaken and stirred
by the pull of her tides
ebbing and flowing
affecting my moods

Your words to me
are like an ever-floating bubble:
elusive and sinuous
it's dancing colours vibrating
against the strings of my soul
taking me along with it

But when I look for you
within these globes
you are gone -
my own distorted features are
the only reflections that I see
bouncing off their surfaces

Written words are all we have,
our society of poets;
there is no voice to decipher
at the end of a phone
no face to read
no body language present:
just dancing ink on fresh canvas
and no other clues to meaning

But I want always our words
to incite and inflame
the thoughts and inspiration
each of another
searching out together
all of life's hidden secrets

Like burning coals which
forge the weapons that
sharpen the images of the mind;
never to dull or grow cold
or become the dusty ash -

The Cinders which yet awaits
The Charming One to come
and Reveal All:

For the truth is here
within our grasp
just waiting to be discovered