Neologisms

It seems a midnight’s poetics is home
To made up words, lexical bed-fellows
Like in incest, guilty in the beginnings.
Their conjugation falls foul of feeling.

Their caste cetificates are forgot soon
In excited sounds of a new drum beat.
In the end they are our hollow drums
Beating rhythms on a stale inside air
As if proclaiming its emptied content.

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