A Word Roams the World

A word roams the world, in the pocket of its owner, who's desperately searching for it. The poor guy searches for the word on a screen, Among completely tasteless food. It used to be in there, inside a little box. Refined, crude, but grown wild on its own. Now, to speed things up, the brackets are opened. Laid bare and perverted by members of society. And what does the owner care? Without a second thought or conscience He stares at white teeth, as if that's how it should be. Alas, there aren't enough brains to fill the cavities because of the gall of the information word-thief. And it's still right there. In the corner of the pocket, the left one. Packed down, dug into gray lint balls. Waiting for its owner, the only one, the timid one. For his opinion, his own, not his mommy's. And so it roams, but dies with every change of jacket, Now and then flickering in the pixels of the screen, And dreams, the way all prostitutes dream, Of being pulled out at the fateful moment… out of the pocket.