A Poem: Impossible



The drawers are lined with messages from the dead,
Scattered in with the papers, clips, and keys.

These messages -
Musty whispers and jots, 
Receipts and ticket stubs,
Fill the drawers,
All the drawers,
In all the desks, 
In all the buildings, 

They are needing transmission to the living.

When your time comes 
To transmit - 
Be it grief or joy -
Leave a message in the drawer,

So the living might know.


Popular posts from this blog

Faces - Experimenting With Portrait Prints

Spilling: A Video Poem