There is a magic in words; real magic, which the smoke and mirrors in a magician's illusion cannot replicate. For the magician shows only what the audience wishes to see, oh, but the poet, the poet writes from their heart. They must annotate their blank sheets with lines of letters, carefully arranged, each and every one. Yes, but their magic often goes overlooked, hidden in the avaricious shadow of science, with it's numbers and cold logic.
There is nothing else in the world that can entice laughter like a perfectly crafted limerick. Nothing else that stretch the barriers of thought like a philosophical metaphor, nothing that can wrench a gasp as a hyperbole can, nothing that can transport one into a realm of fantasy the way imagery is able to. Nothing that can inspire tears in the way that the emotions of the poet, beautifully, painfully, seamlessly woven into the fabric of poetry can.
We must not be so dismissive of the words we say; what is once said cannot be retrieved, those words are sucked back into the vortex which clouds our past, mixing them into the swirling whirlpool of faces and voices, and laughter and tears, and pain and pleasure, so that they become lost, insignificant amongst all the rest. But they are what are the most important, for what is a person without words?
And yet, there are those phrases, made in passing, not thought of as significant, which ring in our ears for hours, days, years. Nothing can make a heart beat as fast as a certain turn of phrase. Nothing is taken quite to heart. Nothing is as close to a melody.
And this is the magic in words; while science imprints itself on our physical surrounds, the poet embroiders their poetry onto our souls, a permanent stain.