Poetry Friday - This House of Words

This house of words is made of ink and air:
of ink on paper waiting to be read,
of air that breaks in waves against the ear.
It cannot hold a man of flesh and blood.

I change the layout, trying to make you fit.
You pass through walls, defying my designs,
defying me. I can't contain you yet.
I'm locked inside while I refine my plans.

This house of words is made of air and ink,
and in it dwell a you and I of words,
our voices hollow and our faces blank,
as near, as separate as index cards.

This house of words is made of empty space,
of understanding that surpasses peace.

4 May 1979

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I've never been satisfied with this poem, the more so since I think the basic idea is a good one. Maybe someday the right words will come to me, and I'll dwell in the house of words forever.