Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Empty Paper

The empty paper stares back at you A few moments ago you only thought of loss Years of improvisation, were a game I thought someone would tell me everything was recorded Everything was saved I would be led to a room down a white corridor A Bulbous microphone waited I would speak into it at last Instead there is just the march of days And the calamity of a chain of thoughts Bumping into one another