It seems words  do make up for life
Whenever it  lacks a sense of being
As objects are lost in continuum.

Words are mere  thingies like bodies
That vaporize to make other  things
That do not matter in the cosmos
Where the other things roam freely 
As space clutter, as if they are gods
Of ancestors, from culture history.

Words do flow slowly sometimes
Their own under-belly seething with
Meaning, in new violence of thought,
Fisticuffs into the air, several fights
All but sound-free, as if in vacuum,
Only fury signifying nothing much.

But words are crow-caws at  dawn
That serve to define my own dawn.


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