We are surrounded by them;
cloaked so tightly about us
the words soak into our skins,
text becomes a part of our bones
and we cannot help but to weave
our own,
for ourselves
for our children
for the lovers at our sides
and for strangers at our gate
yet it is not enough to
be surrounded by the rhythm
of words spoken or read on page
but as hunters we pursue
words on paper right
into our lives
or
as gathers of tales told
from mouths joyous
to share and reveal
plots that are not
of us, of we
for past words rise phoenix
to generation and generation
to them that search
and gather, to those
who weave and display;
truths become legend.
myths become truths.
And the rhythm of all
bump along, tag along
in a cycle
we construe...
and we are a melting pot
of this infinite mystery
for some of us refuse
to live out our own text
and parasite another
until difference is no more;
merge and become one
and we are a mosaic
of this unending riddle
for we cherish within
the beginnings of the self
both the borrowed and unique
and continue to strive
in our fragmented selves
stories become us and we become stories
intwined and never ending is the tale of our birth and death
