When you sleep

Words are being thrown around
By those sleeping, unaware, who
Talking as if they know;
That in the words their ideas live.

Compatriots
Reaching understandings; words are understood.

Compatriots in
Surviving idiocy

Compatriots whose
Thoughts hazed, lie with clarity

You breathe for those without breath.

Words hollow and old
Barked in grey and surrounded with leaves brown and red
Trees that breathed and filled the world's lungs
They breathe no more

Compatriots
Breathing rotten breath into the dead

Stories made from words
Meanings not making sense

Light illuminating names carved in wood (words now people and their forms)
Spills onto the faces who try and draw sap, now dust,
Across an apparent forever, the termite eggs and half-digested cellulose
Leak out of pecker-holes, react with the air;
Print on paper, in black ink un-smeared.

Compatriots
Nauseating
Form-obsessed fiends

It is a struggle to deny the urge to vomit
Upon your precious words
Upon your shitty feast.

When play is done among Nature's wooden graveyard
And reasonable minds must rejuvenate and rest;
You, compatriots, sleep without the croaking
Of dead voices blowing through rotted boughs

Compatriots,
Your ideas planted in words sprout above your beds
When you sleep though
Compatriots,
The words never were