And maybe a word is more than a thing.
It seems to laugh, it seems to cry.
It is all wonders and is all a lie.
And maybe we are beings drawn in words.
Choking on their meanings blurred.
A drop of poison in the sweet of honey.
Yeast fermenting in hope and money.
Knife that slays or barely sighs.
Bridges forming, crossing eyes.
And in the end, what is a word?
Playdough.