In the grand scheme of things what am I?
Is it comparable to gentle breezes and fallen leaves?
Mild drizzle, sun through clouds,
whispering brooks hidden by moss
and the weary drooping arms of sword-fern, dulled.
Closed books sealed with dust.
Letters lost and discarded.
Inkwells crusted shut, bic lighters rusted, fucked.
shattered engine block,
Grain of sand.