In Your Own Words

You don’t own them. They own you.
We own you, if you know us.
Know what we mean? Then we do.

Ten lives since, lived end to end,
A saint said a scribe just wrote—
A real source used his own words.

You’re all scribes in that case, caught
In the thick of fog and smoke
Brought to life by world and words.

The world is a real source—or
Each word, each phrase is a source.
But you are not a source. You

Are a host, an inn, a course
Through which words run from a source
Through more hosts down to the sea.

At most, you are a force field,
A field of play that shapes flows
Of words, a weir or a dam.

But you know all this, don’t you?
You’re tired of this, tired of us.
Fine. Say it in your own words.