Tuesday, January 19, 2016

GIZA

Beware, impetuous young authors: 
for writing is—
quite a bit less like freeing them 

than it is 
like—entombing  
those huge thoughts you're having

inside the solitary, 
cramped but enduring
pit of your memory. True,

you can always exhume
any words 
you've interred there,

but—you can never 
completely fill all the holes
left by those 

backspaces; 
you can never 
fully expect to undo—your having 

willfully planted
those now-arcane keys 
in the first place.

There, in stinging perpetuity 
they'll remain. The dilapidated
and half-hidden

ruins of a particular 
mortal life—that is no longer yours,
and maybe never was,

but now and 
forever always must 
continue to stand,

an emblazoned
monument to—almost 
having been.

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