Friday, September 2, 2016

Being Yet Nothingness

If I had written this on a napkin
Then you'd know it was important
To put it into words,
For no matter how brief a life.

Not that it had to be read now,
Or ever, really, but just entered in the record,
That is, on my account, as if in a ledger,
With columns and rows of symbols.

Yet here on a faux sheet floating in space,
And having no bodily texture,
It lacks everything but meaning.

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