We walk ignoring the shadows
of those who lived before,
a growing collection of letters
addressed to old tenants
lies on my cluttered bookshelf,
decor to glance over but never address
I write myself into paper
carved into shifting sands
with an inky impermanence
that silently stains
Seeped with a forged sense of urgency
rushing to speak quickly,
to speak concisely and
tidily onto a page
Each one bound
so I may own my being,
or at least to feel that sense
it’s a fragile beauty
seeped with intention
I can burn, tear, fade
turn to dusty winds,
return to the earth
Existence persisting whether forgotten
or remembered,
all the fortunes that may never be read
were written once upon a time
one way or another
Some day one will lie
atop the heap
dressed with my printed name
and held by a nameless,
faceless future
