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.