Tuesday, October 21, 2014

How I intended it

all words die
on books never opened
in darkened corners
covered in cobwebs,
damp with mildew,
spilling worms,

all writers are 
meant to be
forgotten,
obscured by
anonymity 
or in fame,
poverty or
riches--

to be the 
only thing that
remains, or
to be nothing--

words 
scrawled 
on grave
stones,
slowly 
eroding
like the 
body
like the 
mind
desperately
fading,
failing

black ink,
abyss,
oblivion.

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