... perfectly imperfect ...

...words, words,words
are all we have...
~Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guilderstern are Dead~

Never fails
And Always Amuse
The dramatic irony
Of worlds and words

We find ourselves
Perennially searching
In eternal endlessness…
Only to return
To the one which
Eludes

Millions around
In so many forms
Yet, struggles
To find the one
Who speaks,
The meaning of us

Convoluted, complicated, complex
Confusing
Sense is made
World created
Only to know it
Is temporal

We seek comfort in the mastery of words
But even as pen meets paper,
We realize that we are merely scratching
life
In an instant can be erased.
No word
Suffices.

Suddenly, blank
Silence erupts.