Why do we write?
To keep us alive.

We think the ink
Can slow the decay
Of our rotting body.

So we write the things
We wish could cure
Our mortality
On dead trees,
For their soul have left
So ours could remain.

But blinded by such dreams
We forget, it seems,
That the death of those old trees
Can’t allow them to leave.

Rather than immortality
It’s rotting eternity
Which we achieve,
As our souls pile up
In wooden boxes
Made out of dead trees
And we’re stored on dirty shelves.

Lonely and left for dead
With the only hope
That a curious soul
Would pick our box up
And release some of our dust
To fill some room with parts of us.



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