There is meaning, and meanings 
hidden amongst the glyphs 
and white spaces 
separating this from that, us
from
them, 
and the new lines 
and new pages
intrinsic to every separation. 
My meanings safely stored
where you fear to go,
behind the veil of the ordinary 
a graveyard of the fallen thoughts,
fallen hopes and the glue 
that once bound them; truth
is found on the back of a sticky note,
a remnant of a binding gone wrong
where only fluff remain.
There is meaning, and then
— there is not.