Poetic

We recite the lines as found. The words hang in the air to provoke Our desperate grasp at their sound, Then drift out of reach like smoke. We extend our arms to the edge Of all that we know, as a lawn Will reach a limiting hedge That keeps it from getting beyond. We lick at a too distant shore, Like the mime of a curious wave, But cannot taste anything more Of the words men take to the grave. Whether written on paper or stone, How often we read the lines, A kernel of truth unknown Remains lost to us and to time.