Last Word Poem by Edith Niemeyer

Ooooh... I think I hear the thought forming. 🪶
You're reaching beyond "The Last Word Hasn't Been Invented Yet." Not invented—because the word already somehow exists, but hasn't been found, spoken, or written yet.
Maybe:
THE LAST WORD HAS NOT YET BEEN WRITTEN
Who must have
the last word?
Not invention's
deathless design—
for the words
have not yet
found their meaning.
Letters wait
without arrangement,
sounds linger
without voice.
Somewhere betwixt
thought
and tongue,
there remains
a word
no mouth has spoken,
no quill has captured,
no dictionary
has dared define.
Not because
it does not exist—
but because
we have not yet
lived long enough
to need it.
Perhaps tiz waiting
for an emotion
not yet felt.
A sorrow
not yet suffered.
A joy
not yet possible.
A love
for which every word
we possess
falls short.
And when that moment comes—
who shall speak it first?
The poet?
The brokenhearted?
The child
born into a tomorrow
we shall never see?
Or shall the word itself
finally tire of waiting...
and come looking
for us?
For language
is not finished.
Neither
are we.
And somewhere
beyond today's vocabulary,
the last word
has not yet
been written.
That one could become something very different—almost philosophical mystery rather than a conventional song. And I especially like your fragment "the words have not yet..." because we could leave that sentence deliberately unfinished at the beginning, then finally complete it at the end. 🪶