Words are words.
Which is why we write.
Words will wither, words will wonder, words will walk wandering wishes every which-way.
Words wage wretched war, with weapons which wrestle with our wickedness.
When wed, words whisk up wet and wild witnessing.
When withheld, words weaken and withdraw into winter’s wounded weariness.
With the whispering whistle of the wind, words waken within the whizzing and wanting, the wink which will wheel us wider into wanderlust.
Words will wring wisdom from within, and wash the world with wonderful ways.