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