IT'S QUIET
Here's something. The wrapper tells me.
They don't wrap 'nothing,' after all. Such
are the evidences of this life : Empty
boxes and un-used portions, leftover
edges of time. As for myself. encased
in a particular amber, I bide time by
years, and count those same years as
time. And when I am gone, like those
wrappers - empty skins and voided
places - I'll be finished waiting.
No comments:
Post a Comment