We leave our words wanting legacy against the clock
ticking tocking off the days wear on the white page
is it a notebook?
left against the floorboards or some ether-drifting-design landing upon a fragment of tomorrow's star?
what was this life so sophomoric & toned
black white & rose?
there are many feathers here gathering dust & dreams
why would anyone write anything exposing viscera grey & dead
when we know -matter- always remains regardless
timeless
transformed
everything is words reformed
to light's bright home
words to stars
ink to black
words become ...
