oh, if words

if words, as themselves, 

had meaningful depth, 

we'd have permission slips

to swim in verbal puddles,

to have it tearfully rain whenever,

to have mystics over for dinner,

to say beyond what we could possibly mean,

to convey in incomplete sentences,

to forgive what was spoken before we forget,

to have inner dialogue with a self of substance,

to bargain with the devil as a third party,

to harvest speech as if artifacts of history,

to grow orchards of say already blossomed,

as a wardrobe of meaning already for wearing,

to carve ice statues that melt upon hearing,

to have meaningful as thick blankets and warm gloves,

to have dictionaries more valued than bibles or videos,

to have celebrity words and shrines to sentences,

to go on tours with speaking as concerts given,

to have given states of experience based on paragraphs,

to have comfortable beds made up of willowy hearsay,

to have lip-service delivery once you open your mouth.

but then cakes don't make themselves.

planted seeds still need earthbound tending.

and rhetoric is still words spoken, 

without true human assignment . . .