First there was the word
It was scrawled, crowed
Don’t be the first they say
gentile, goy rare, very rare
The word became something in them
The word will transmute
Will clay turn itself into a sculpture?
Will words fashion, mode, style
becomeing flesh, soma
Yet words need writers
No wonder the world was written
There needed to be tools
Something had to be
Words are not vacuous
empty hollow mindless
inanity
creation
Yet things seem to come into existence
I am sure I am here
It was so simple
A dinosaur wrote a book
God wrote life not books
That was why we had potential
voltage, electrical potential
God wrote everything
God never stopped writing
The procedure was to create meaning
To create creation
To write even though words were first
Words were present, beginning
Who will have the last conclusion?
When words run empty
When the first becomes the last
When all firsts are somewhere past
That means the first never ends