Eternity evolving personal calligraphy

so that my hand would discern self-

iconographs. Is consciousness erasable?

Write letters to the past knowing no

former you will ever receive it. If only

specific wisdoms were passed down

through genetics. Instead we enter

the world knowing nothing but how

to breathe. I’ve come to take these

poetry whims as dimes of good

ideas. I can write for hours, days

on end, the zenith somewhere along

the distant shores. What creative wants

to die within their sorrow’s reach?