To die is but to reason on one's own
of things beyond the call of human thought,
experiments of fancy turned within
to deeper things than images of life.
To die is but to reason in the night
when lanterns all grow dim and greater lights
have faded in the sky's all-stealing void
and we are left to whistle in the dark
before the angel brings us to the seat
where reason bows to Word and death has died.
The Space Between My Words
The space between my words is formed of steel;
the silence in the sound is iron-wrought.
As temples formed of stone can only rise
within an empty space, as written words
will not be writ on any but blank page,
so thought itself, and voice, and deed, and life,
require a frame on which to build and rise,
an empty volume for a soaring spire,
a place to write, a silence for the song,
a frame of secret strength and empty space
without which all would fall and crash to dust.
Never need I fear my words will fall:
the space between my words is formed of steel,
supporting all my thought as it appears,
a buttress certain for the rising walls,
a silence, more than void, in which the sound
can grow into a voice to sing Amen.