“In the End is the Word,” a poem

In the End is the Word

We are born listening,

collecting words in our souls

like chrysalises in glass jars,

each word a shade of color, a hue,

each one reflecting the light.

In the end, we die with only

one word on our lips, one word

which stands silently

by our side as our soul looks

across the wide open field

once more, where sparrows fly,

only now to see the horizon

which calls us onward.

We carry this word with us,

a jewel in our hands,

our pearl of great price,

offering it to the one who stands

by the golden door, the one

who watches with loving eyes.

We press our lips gently

to our one word, and release it,

the key that opens

the door to what comes next,

what waits for us.

Life is a distillation,

a focus on what has substance

in a time of distraction.

Without the word, we cannot enter.

Without the word, we cannot live.

Stuart