At the end of the day,
We all fall in line,
Like words in a poem,
We conflict and combine.

We huddle in verses,
We roll and we rhyme,
We shield our true meaning,
To be found out in time.

We hang onto the commas,
Because any day,
The writer could scrap us,
And take us away.

But once in a while,
The ink smears, the lines break,
And before they rewrite us,
We run - for their sake.