We all Die Young

Lightly the words could flow,

Like soft piano notes from skilled fingers.

Could a whole story flow in kind?

Each word having meaning.

Each sentence having rhythm.

Each paragraph having form.

None wasted and much being said.

While using and without but,

Holding space for pain and joy.

And sharing hope through sorrow.

Right without absolute.

Wrong without judgment. 

Could it convey time without clocks,

Or feelings without explanation,

Or spaces without description?

The rhythms themselves explaining all.

The feelings engaging the imagination.

The weight of knowing without understanding.

Could we do with words what we do with music? 

Experiencing without expressing.

Touching without being near.

Could we let go that much?

Those of us taught only to hold on.

Taught to fight ourselves and everything.

Are there rhythms truly all around us?

Can we reach mars and not our neighbor?

The moon, and not the rhythms of a tree?

Could we share in this expression?

Could we walk a path unknown? 

Could we feel and survive?

Or do we all die before our time?