I speak with what I have—
Its value per your appraisal.
My words are just words,
Mine but nothing more
Unless you adore them
And embrace them as yours.
What good are they? I wonder,
As wondering as all I am permitted,
As I disallow myself a final judgment
Since in doing so I condemn myself
To a finality, to a reality,
To confess: this is all I am.
Word is inseparable from being,
They are one and the same.
Each word spoken, written,
Shimmers a facet of self,
Delineates the whole of man.
Nothing is confessed,
Everything is professed
But still,
I hope they are enough for you.
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