Gone Native Poem by Kevin Maroney

Ideas, sweet and sallow, loaf around,
and in their own laws, aren't bound
by some strange mortality,
that somehow ends in rationality.

But suppose, for a moment, take a second's time
that such a thing were to be twisted, in common rhyme.
No longer itself, it's again gone native,
as all things do, with time, be abated.

Such a thing, such a twist, such a panapolyctic turn,
towards the worst, not towards the brain but instead the tongue,
a reason to discuss, not to run,
nor even to subtract or add a sum.

an idea, a word, both mean the same,
when made but part of life's great game.