The Power of the Word

Powerful is the word …

Total immersion, like an herbal tea bag in a piping hot cup of water,

the flavors of life diffuse betwixt the hydrogen and oxygen borders.

The water like words, surging against the cranial wall, its stimulus fosters,

erupting with an impetus for creation, with induction as its author.

On the outskirts of the mind I sit, in contemplation of this almighty word,

It is said that the pen is mightier than the sword, and logic is mostly preferred.

As with a well-rehearsed accord, the word can be understood with aphonic spurs,

where warfare has ceased, and leaders lend to classify in indefatigable slurs.

As critics we athirst for the intent, the objective, the response to the thesis,

like the water trying to re-establish itself to a whole from its collected pieces,

sometimes in the form of a deluge, in poetry overflow, we lose the adhesives,

relished in the chaos though, is the interplay and gravity of the result, the reasons—

Some interpolate the atmosphere of a prison, others become their freedoms,

Yet the word inserts itself with power, a meaning, a form of psychokinesis,

Able to imply force without physicality, its intent is cohesive,

While binding some to their truth, it makes others drink from the calix of their releases.

How powerful is this word, that it can bring cities to rubble, kings to their knees,

Stroked by the inkwell and quill, in denigrating forms or dulcet remarks it aims to please,

The word is bond and contract, and the true meaning is esoteric, not to appease,

But to speak, to heed the myriad volumes of the few that understand the keys.

Whether spoken, written, or rehearsed, the word is power, it binds, it is sublime,

Only the word could describe such squalor as any more than a pile of filth and grime,

Only the word could give such semblance of pulchritude, to a venomous swine,

It is the nexus by which we communicate, the panacea used to help us entwine.

The word is a motley endeavor. Its quiddity befits that which it defines

In morsels of truth and galactic rhythm, it learns to work outside of the lines.

In the quiets droving consciously by and the platitudes that we’ve once denied,

Abide we do, to trust the word, its colors and its hues, in truth we shall confide.

The word spoken in effulgence so slight, for swift outbursts could leave a man so blind,

But remarkable to witness, when spoken true, the pathways and meanings it will find,

the moment it slips from your tongue, to light, could be fugacious, like dropping a line,

or the almighty word, could be epochal enough to change the history of mankind.

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Paul Neglia

Proud father of 3. Part time writer of poetry and short stories. I want to paint the world in but a few words.

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