Tuesday, December 20, 2011


Each word, a minute
A line; an hour
Each day one page...

Each day, ripped from our book
and held against tomorrows flame
Turned, torn and gone...

With our hands we recall;
Ours is a memory of
Soot smudges and papercuts


Aaron Held said...

This is an excellent poem, it says a lot of things I think.

Inconsequential said...

Hehe, thanks dude :)