Do Words Make Real?

Do Words Make Real?

Do words make real?

Letters, concepts shaping,

sounds and shapes reflecting

light that shines on cave's stone wall?

Words give thought --

form reception, perception;

toy with what we see,

determine what we say,

define and form.

Do words make real?

Would saying so be real?

What of music -- surely

this is real. Emotive.

Speech of soul elicits;

drawing, leading,

calling tears and laughter --

dancing, otherworldy.

The Muse and those who tease,

embedding ring in soul,

pull us where they go.

But is it real because we feel,

because we yearn, because we know?​

Sartre, Camus

and brothers told us yes -

and no, for answers cannot

be their own undoing, 

words saying words not real.

Muse - wordless -

leads in world with million

points of bearing, candles

tossed about the seas:

now raging, now calm,

now lit, now gone.

What is real?

“I. Is that enough?”

Why ask? The heart knows

eternal without knowing.

To question this must speak

with empty voice;

“no” requires “yes”,

meaning nothing when “I” is gone.

Irony is weak for this,

hopeless to explain:

eye curses light,

fish defies sea,

woman denies man or man, woman.

It's very real we see

when ask

why skeptic mind alone

is given shrine, driving

masses thinking, blinking, bowing.

“The only real knows there is not,” we say,

smug but dead. We implode

in word, truth, reality. Too late.

Mortality does not lie.

The end of educated ignorance,

knowing what but never why.

A call of faith breaks through,

the soul of grasping words,

the secret home of Muse:

faith, fraught with

unfriendly friends, ideas

foreign to her person.

The true heart hears her voice,

wisdom's call: “There is,

and knowing knows it so.

Question as you will;

question the questioner.

I will be here still, rejected

lover whom to lose is

to be no more.”