Words Inward

Words are but the decorations auras 
inside come to wear as they do declare
their presence exterior to themselves,
an inner sunrise, red twitched on the east

an inner moonset silver twisted west
down the chute of gold glowing horizon,
this but statement by meek comparison
of what inside is not caparisoned

but resists all but immediacy
the feel of itself, itself in itself,
not precipitate of any liquid,
but a vapor state sound but imitates

words’ confessions of inadequacy
point to the life inward that is sublime