I call it stranger

The word is  right yet destitute,
Does not fit the sentence
Has no place.
The word is  spoken rarely with no pleasure
Is not welcome where it reaches
Has no anchor.
It has no companions,hence no prosody.
Can’t be knitted;
Has no mooring.
The word is dying. I say it never lived;
Cannot be mentioned,
Creates no order.
The word is made from letters
Yet  they congeal and kill
Ironically ,some call it liver.
I call it stranger.