Words.

Words fall in
and words fall out
they're just like you and me.
Some get on and some are wrong,
some are right
right from the start -
some have drawn the humble part.

Most get by, 
though some are fly
and take us for a ride.
Some will mourn the loss sustained
when some old meaning died.

Some pair up
and some are cliquey,
some are bonding,
some are hippy.

The poet threads them into strings
to sing of things that nature brings.

Some trickle from the poet's pen
like an escape of gas:
alto, tenor, contrabass.

The painter's brush
with blobs and flicks,
the maestro's booms and clicks,
the wine press of the poet's mind
all turn words to fluid thought,
each of its special kind.

Graffiti give them second birth.
Alive they are, and doing well
in the bowels of the earth.

Some jump up 
and some fall down
(they're frail as frail can be),
some will build their holy city,
some a Godless town;
some are writing their new rules -
see the way the meaning spools
out beyond the shitty.

Some will dance
and others prance,
meanings come
(though most by chance),
other meanings go,
carried in the awful flow
to worlds that hardly spare a glance
and hardly want to know.