Words are the wings upon which we soar.
Flying through the mazes of ages we keep looking
Toward something, for something—
For what, we’re not really sure.
A way to connect, a way to define,
A way to express what’s on our minds.
But maybe, just maybe there’s more.
Maybe words are magic in and of themselves,
Telling stories of creation, relation, damnation, and salvation.
We use words to build a nation, to birth a notion,
To express our love and our devotion.
Words, whether they’re written or spoken,
Are the magic potion that can
Cleave our minds wide open,
So we see not black and white,
But stories of grace and might,
And people. Just people.
Words can be rough or sharp,
Biting into our flesh and our pride,
Leaving us wounded and asking why—
Why am I resigned to this life?
But we are not.
Because words may be rough and sharp,
But this world has both light and dark
And when we fight the dark with our powerful words
We can light a spark that starts
The world may tear us down, may burn us to the ground,
But we are phoenixes,
Rising up from the ashes on our wings made of words,
Because words are the wings upon which we soar.