Is there a solace for words?
A place to be, asides a page
A space to be, asides a line
Tell me, is there more for words?
Asides the guile of being spoken
Or is speech all there is,
For an art form so golden.

Is there a haven for thoughts?
Like souls, it seeks solace
A page, like flesh, holds it bound
And speech, like death, sets it free
is there more for words,
Asides that which eyes can see
is memory a grave,
And thoughts a curious dig.

Where do read poems go?
The heart, the ears or the soul?
If all there is for a poem is reading,
and all there is for a soul is living,
Where do dead poets go?
The hearth, the ether or a stow?