What are words? I don't know nor care,
while excavating fields of tender straw,
moaning, flailing, lost in all oblivion,
faith in words is nothing but a flaw.
And when I rise
and wet dry lips of crudeness, and wonder
that my body parts exist, I then surmise
that words are naught and nothing,
a babbling brook dissolving in dark mist.
What do they mean, these men who mutter mangled
words sounds air voids, so little do they say,
let them but flail one morning in a whirlwind
of up down twists in soft smooth spinning sparks.