Words

I held upon my weary way

a thousand words--yet naught to say--

For all are born with words to use,

which--without order--they abuse.

My heart did sorrow, wherewithal

could be my voice? Where was its call?

I knew not how to use my tongue,

So useless 'fore my teeth it hung;

and all around me spoke, with song,

and poem, verse, oh, what was wrong?

Why could I not use word and voice

like those around me could, by choice?

It did not come like dew to grass--

then I as yet felt something pass;

I looked and there beheld a being,

like myself, but more agreeing,

He said to me, "My friend, you yet

do not completely have it met:

Your voice is not a tool to use

to gain mere favor and abuse,

it lives to give you access to

the thoughts of hearts, to pass them through

to others who feel as you do

that they might understand it, too."

The being, then, again took flight

so I could ponder on this light.

I was not to use my speech

to gain attention or to preach,

I was to use it for to teach,

to hope that someone it might reach,

that they might understand it, too,

the thoughts and words that echo true.

   -Lewie II