The irony that lies, as in great heights of the skies,
or the depths of the ocean, in its leagues,
The meanings of sorts, in multiples, its cohorts,
some words in its labyrinth, there succeeds..
The paradoxical qualities, enigmatic in their designs,
the secret agents slither, as all covert,
On a mission, or a conundrum, explained
by metaphor's evasion, this given, of a sort.
The riddles, all great puzzles, a purpose in their muzzles,
few clues given, in exactly what they mean,
The sharpest written word, its likeness to be heard,
yet, not the written word meant, nor as keen.
Words spoken, in their defense, are no recompense,
scattered, as algorithms, so far and wide.
As etymologists may strive, the words meanings to derive,
at grave risks, those beauties, in which we confide..
Easier to say what we mean, in meaning what we say,
riding all complexities, that we may hear,
Forgetting isms, correlations, with its conjugations,
of our grammar, that we all hold so dear.
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