These words were here so long,
they seeped into the page.
They were here,
but not really understood.
For there are gaping nuances,
Dialects of swift innocence
Lost,
in the ever-branching limb
of comfort and necessity

I brush their meaning;
when I stay,
But dream of leaving.
For they are transient in nature,
And made in the same ways as dreams.
I need only observe and dream with them,
but lose them in their spastic feints.
Like, perfectly evolved fractals,
dissolving, back to chaos.

Yes, they are made like dreams,
I know because they go on and on,
Seemingly forever.
and they form us,
As we weave,
and tangle their meaning.