Used up Symbols of Change
Viscious crackers in the early morning:
Reading between the rows of incomplete
sentences looking for the ragged edges of your soul.
Those tattered threads strewn about like
so much lint seen floating across
the last ray of hope.
Too fresh to throw away, worn enough to be trite.
There in the words splayed across the worn-edged
pages of the autobiography of me and you and them,
there in the words hidden without clues
lay the remnants of an existence that was meant
to be only once, and never again.
A past that ages backward into change
without changing, leaving behind lessons
destined to a future that cannot know its course,
and the little pieces get lost.
Sifting for the instant when the soul touched the pen,
when it preserved the alignment of the mind and the
universe, the pen and the verse,
then moved on to the next time.
Filling in the voids of random
triviality on the face of the page, making
incomplete sentences.
Copyright © 1997