What are words?
Simple thoughts, floating,
Nonchalantly soaring through space?
Etches on a page; proof,
Evidence of connections made
Between pen and paper? Simple scratches
In the sand?
Photographs? Snapshots of time,
Perceived only by the literate?
What is literacy? One man’s tongue
Is but gibberish to another.
Passion is lost in translation.
Are Words living beings?
Do they fly about,
Waiting to be caught and contained
With the writer’s pen?
Is a writer no more than a hunter,
Their life devoted to the capture of Words?
I draw no conclusion here,
But if I had, would the conclusion
Have been mine to draw?
Am I but a hunter,
Stalking in my language,
Awaiting the capture of Words?
