Words

They don't exist as we know
Them to exist in our minds,
On our rocks, tablets, paper,
Or glowing screens, each alone,
A certain sound, some symbols
Tightly clustered and distinct.
They're shaped patterns we abstract

From continuous buzzing,
From the mumbling of nature,
The daydreams of deities,
The stone-crammed mouths of the muse.
They're everything about us
That gives us fits and spasms
Of genius. They don't exist.