Every word I breathed out into the pool of words that pull you out,
pull you in, pull you off and pull you about, had a cost.
From that very same pool I drank what I now exhale.
And the more words I fling in it the lesser is their worth, for the pool widens.
A question of offer and demand.
Once I was floating in its blackened waters and I tried to swim it all,
never plunging adequately deep into its aqua,
since that could have been a farewell to the surface, the light: the fall.
I failed.
So here I am sitting on the parched bank of my grammar pool,
a school for those who couldn't learn the wisdom those ancients taught,
exchanging a zero for a naught.
Here is where exiled words are merry and turn into laughter,
and, lost, grow their own legs to walk.
