Wednesday, May 29, 2013


I'm post something-
Maybe of a time when not many know
Where the little red box stands.

I'm a letter,
Written slant with slapping
I's and cross T's.

I'm a dead language,
Spoken by a few, read by fewer;
And the words are meager.

I'm a big line drawn on some map,
You can't see but for the tongues
That no more curl but strike.

I'm another world,
Where sleep has ten words,
None too sure of the other.


Though they say otherwise,
I'm more, is what I want to believe.
And I shall stick on, stamped.

I'm here, I see and hear.
There is a voice and there are hands
Which shall crumple my face.

I'm the creases,
And shall crumble away,
Like the house you were born in.

And all that would be left,
Is a memory etched,
And with you, that too shall go.

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