— Something left for the ages
No matter what the ink reveals
Over time on the pages.
It hangs in the air
Like the myth of Lemuria
Or an incident from decades ago
Stuck in the permanent now.
And maybe this sound
Just resembles a cry
In its soft whirring flight
Of ballpoint black ...
And yet it must be;
How else could the words
Be carried away,
Carved right out of life?
