By putting ink to a page, a life has started.
The words are given bodies.
Thoughts are breathing at last.
Sentences are aging and growing with every mark.
Then the collection becomes a thing with power.
A strong, beautiful Thing.
We like to think the power is ours, since we gave it this life.
That because we are the creators, we, somehow, own the words.
Oh, how wrong we are.
To write is to know that the moment you start the words,
They immediately belong to others.
They belong to any who cares enough to read, speak, and listen to the words.
The very same words you wrote and gave an existence.
The letters become the word’s soul,
Allowing them to live on with a purpose.
It’s only when no one writes, or reads, or listens,
Do we see this life begin to diminish.
The words begin to fade away and lose it’s power.
Things start to slow and degrade.
Because writing keeps things moving forward.
All we need to do is breathe life into the words
Then let them live on.