Aside from this
is the luxury of reading, of scanning lines.
If words cut men wouldn’t needs knives
but words don’t need forging,
don’t need to be dealt like a stroke of steel
and said too easily, too often.
And life is not just about joy.
There are other things, the unwelcomed
the absence of warmth.
And words are written, unsaid, read, taken to heart.
Something is missing.
I call it realisation
One of them wrote about absence,
those words held realisation
and offered contentment, the fleeting kind
of envied lines.
One of them wrote because he could
and somewhere, aside from all of this,
men like him are forging misery,
men like him are making a world full of absence,
the permanent kind
of what is left behind when life is taken,
when words are not enough.