Words Are the Souls of the Dead

You know how you know
The world has an edge,
An end it can’t pass?

Hints are in the math,
The way no thing can
Show but a thing goes,

Not a quark more, not
A wave, not a soul—
You don’t squeeze to fit,

But you trade for it,
No loss and no gain,
In sum, on the whole.

But the words that squeak
Like bats and stand still
As signs want to know,

Was the god right, claimed
No thing could not be?
If so, where do we

Come from, where do we
Go, what’s just what’s meant,
No mass in this world?