Sunday, January 19, 2014

Graphed



The Echo of What Remains Collected Poems of Wanda Lea Brayton






Days turn slowly into nights
and I am certain of less with each moment -
some call this "wisdom".

All I know is this: 

my edges fade more with each movement 
and pages curl with disuse; 
my form will be forgotten -

a wisp of something 
that once stood tall among bent reeds,
that once swayed in ink, no matter how fierce the wind.