Worst for the words,
It appears to me,
Is for them to cease to exist.
Pressing as your heart ever may.
Worst, indeed, for the words,
It is, you must know, for they
Will no longer turn into gold
That once was hay.
Worst, yes, for the words,
It is, you discover, that they
Will not unearth—never anymore—
Buried thoughts that lay.
Worst, surely, for the words
It is, I confess, that they occasionally
Witness the dry beds that once
Flew hundreds of gallons away.
Trust, but I must, in the same words,
For it is at their own fancy that
I awoke, avowed, and will ever await.
Never leave me, I ask. Stay.
Trust, I will, in those words,
For it is their humble selves that
I will reach where I’ve yearned to go
As the words will pave my way.
Trust, surely I will, in those words,
For when they will bless me,
They will have me drenched, and
Quench my thirst for the day.