Words wriggle like worms through grooves in the ground,
Thoughts thinking through troughs in our mind.
They delight and inspire or ignite fearful fires,
Which can burn us in ways most unkind.
Words teeming and streaming day and night in our heads
Tell us just how we think things things are being,
But when the words’ ruts don’t align with our guts
They prevent us, the word weavers, from seeing.
The words say it is so, when, in fact, it is not
And because it is us, we believe them.
When the words’ lies, cloud over our eyes
We passively weave and receive them.
Yet we, as the weavers, believers, conceivers
Have powers that words can’t describe.
We are the source, so can alter the course.
We can tack when the words want to jibe.
As we attend to our word weaving ways
And amend any harmful conception,
We feed fuel to our fire, choosing words which inspire
Our joy in our basic perfection.