The Inadequacy of Words

By PoeticMeditatons

Inert symbols laying on the page,
Vessels containing so little wealth,
A thousand for a single image;
Simulacrum of the thing itself.

“Bread” alone an empty stomach does not fill,
Neither can words make you smell the scent of rain,
Nor taste an apple or feel the winter chill;
An apt description is simply not the same.

To transform words into living flesh,
Bursting with life and not mere meaning,
Taste the sweet kiss, feel the soft caress;
The word itself has become the thing.


About poeticmeditations

A 19th-century romantic poet living in the 21st-century. The Romantic poets, nib pens, candlelight, waistcoats, and pocket watches are a few of my favorite things.
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