Them, Too

Yes, all words. Yes, these.
Yes, the ones in clay.
Yes, the ones in safes.
Yes, the words you write.
Yes, words cached in mines.

You know this. The words,
We know this, too. Words
Will all be gone, soon,
By the lives of suns,
If not by the likes

Of you. Why words, then,
And why write them, if
They weren’t meant at first
To be pressed in dirt,
But to flee on air,

Once past eyes and ears?
You don’t write us down
To talk to us, save
Us to talk with us,
Though, of course, we do.

You want to reach out
Through us to more souls
In the flesh, like you.
You know you do. We
Know it, too. Ghosts, too.