Hand of Words

by Joanna

Poetry knows no revolution 

No fight

No struggle 

There are only words

Hastily penned

With both light and heavy hearts

Mending pain and reveling 

In love’s unending mystery 

Regailing and repeating

Celebrating and mourning

The words themselves 

An extension of the urge of man

Creating verse with hands 

Hewn rough

Or gentle and soft

The pen does not know

The difference 

And when it does all end 

In a heap of dust

There will be word on tongue alone again

Echoing through the chasm of time