It doesn’t matter, it’s useless really
as useless as lines on a page…
The meaning inherent, the content palpable
but does it really ever affect time?
It has to be done, for it lives and it breathes
a being unto itself.
Yet its value, its worth, is questionable still
as it remains tightly within pages bound.
If words were written and no one read them
would their meaning cease to be known?
Would they become stacks of paper lining walls of rooms
disintegrating with time.
They have to be written, I understand
with a force they demand release.
Like a blade across skin, or an empty bottle drained
we are convinced they bring us peace.
Scratching and scribbling and scrawling
we craft our immaculate webs.
Perched safely back in the shadowed corners
waiting for anyone uninvited to be trapped.