Angele Toomey Poetry

Today I will let the poetry speak for itself.

Tools of the trade

Graphite shaped over sequestered carbon
To conduct the power of my words
And to holding ideas in stasis
With imprecise symbolic meaning.
To be hung on a wall
Hidden in a drawer?
Maybe thrown away with the other
detritus
during a life barely half-lived.

Being shaped in ink would not alter
the fate of these shapes:
Even bits and bytes degrade
and crumble,
Falling into an ever smaller world of
powdered sandstone and forgotten love.

The best I can hope for is a fired neuron:
A temporary reaction
In your imagination
And then it will dissipate
Along with all the fragments of
half developed ideas
And hidden symbols you never saw.