Heavy beating against paper walls
has the thin sound of dying light
Like an old candle, or trash settling in a can
There is compassion, and then there is what happens when the selfish heart
Folds and unfolds
like money in your pocket
There is no way out of feeling it
Sharp and thin, and forever containing your attention
It isn’t anything, but a hint of the bind
It isn’t a barricade, but a polite reminder
Of the things you already knew came, and were to come
When you take it out and open it up
And show it off
And hold it in the light
Close to your face, to let it in, but not repeat
The contents of the message
Although so many have already read the words
In an earlier draft of a better subject
As your pen lies there, assassinated,
in a pool of its own waste, you look for another
before anyone can offer you their own.
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