In My Room

In my room
there is a profusion of words.
Words that have poured
out of the books,
stacked in the order of confusion.
Rows upon rows having marched out
picketed themselves in defiance of me.
Words unread and uncared for
preventing me from knowing their meaning
a depth of order in their lateral disorder.
And then there are the words,
having leaked out of restless dreams,
have taken refuge in the crevices.
Like roaches hiding from light
but nibbling away at a good-night's sleep.
Helter-skelter do they run,
as breaks the dawn
and its a voyeur who is left behind.
Some words though
have dropped out of conversations.
Words not assimilated
into the structure of thought
or the fluidity of understanding.
Orphans they are, spoken to be heard
but unheeded and unheard ,hence, contextless
have meaning but are identity-less.
Oh! these damned words
how bitterly do they fight
to make their own all the space available,
or to create a whole new space of their own,
to create a conscious identity,
or to own one like me,
to reclaim me.