for writing is—
inside the solitary,
you can always exhume
There, in stinging perpetuity
ruins of a particular
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
but now and
forever always must
continue to stand,
an emblazoned
monument to—almost
having been.