The poem I deleted
before I wrote this one
was like the furtive intricate
folds of a rose petal—
complex in its frailty
and perfumed with allusion,
and it contained sterling answers
to all the most pressing
metaphysical questions.
But personally, now that its
destruction is finished,
I actually feel better.
I mean, I feel
superior—not to mention,
much more accomplished
than I ever did before.
Who says you can never
destroy information?