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I pick upon a flower with grace
Petals in a distant world with an alternate face
I send notes to a distant entity
no more dying
than I am living
And the notes return, unmarked, unbleached
For I wrote them as stains
Ink seemed to inspire permanence in my words
When I read my messages again,
seems nothing more had changed.
Still blue blots on an untethered page
Befuddled and spread, from ill-mannered water
Seemed almost strange
And yet the confirmation of my edifice of disarray
It is about frustration, degradation, and... confirmation.
