Logos
What are words, but that which gives ephemeral form
to thoughts and pictures,
or syllables weaved together to create a new sound?
And from whence does it come?
A box that cannot contain that which it produces:
foreign creatures with wings,
anxious to break free and be taken away by the wind,
left to ride the backs of thunderheads
This is the immersion of voice, buried deep yet exposed,
raised letter by letter like the resurrection of saints
and falling as a holy waterfall
Yet so much more are the strokes of a pen
that grace the surface of a sleek white virgin page,
truly allowing it to breathe some new thing
Word given form, shape and purpose
bringing to potential paper and ink, united as a bride to a groom
The result leaves humanity colliding with divinity,
drawn in by a shepherd's hook that brings the cold close
and holds her in a warm embrace
What are these words that fall off the tongues of cherubim,
cresting the edge of the world like satin white horses?
The lungs of man will be filled with poignant pictures,
and trifold 'holies'
The pen will make his mark on internal walls,
saturated with the sound of glory
These new things, these shapes and figures-
whence do they come?
Not from the depths of the sea, nor bellows of the earth
is it heard or seen or smelt or tasted
A voice of such words that are foreign,
yet inviting the Dark to be pierced by Light
and speaking in a beautiful spectrum that is hidden by angels
The syllables are deep and brought to the surface,
the infrastructure of the world cradled in the palm of one word
and blazing into unseen cardiac highways
YB 06 8/25
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