{Empty}

I swear there used to be a post in here;
Hiding somewhere on the internet
There may still be. However, I forget
The details of its composition, fear
I will not recollect them, think it queer
That words can vanish like these did. And yet,
Perhaps not so, for what are words? They let
Me speak, and also let, perhaps, you hear,
But what are they themselves? A breath of wind
Easily penned or typed, or even spoken,
As easily as that warped, twisted, broken,
Crumbled in the ear and quickly binned.
The words are not the matter, but the skin
The matter makes to keep its meaning in.