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.