There are words here, pasted on the
walls, dripping onto waste-paper floors,
dissolving into pools of serrated,
gnawing letters at our feet.

Letters that once signified,
lose their thingness as they are
abstracted into nothing but
peas and queues, eyes and
teas.

Dreams lost, meaning
jettisoned
away…

Into that place where secrets
are kept, locked, nuanced and
scented with the sweet perfumed
day dreams of our conspiring
unconsciousness.

Out stumbles hope, to soothe
our tired feet, which have trekked
over bladed pens and sharp-witted
words, with heavy burdens
and little respite.

Our tummies full, fluttering
with gratification–delayed and
fulfilled– Sleep-filled lids drop,
taking us far away from
prescribed meaning to
inscrutable delight
to be.

© Kat Manica