a poem a day

There is a gland within that changes shape
With the passing of time and circumstance.
It secretes only words. 
The seepage is slow, continual.
The words seep from the gland into the dark.

In the dark they move through paths uncertain.
They are not aware of their journey.
Their journey is not aware of them.
Dark within another dark.

The words pile against that twice darkness
Like logs in a flume.
They scrape and bump against each other. 
The bark of their beginning peels away.

Their random scraping slowly rubs a signal.
In the double dark, a glimmer.

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