In continuing letters we make spacings
And as we pause ,a space is filled again
By a meaning from thought’s side-alley
Helped along by night’s liquid darkness.
Our sounds are fury, letters of no origin.

But there are rants in side-alley rattling
Like wind in door,a letter pushed below
And language crawls a page right to left,
A worm crawling all the way to bottom
Where it vanishes in depths of the night.

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