That I might wrap them in my words

Sing graceful letters

There is no end to the written

No end

This is not God

This shared subconscious

This endless fame

Hidden in our hope of discovery

Itching no small mound of loneliness

To be known is to be loved

To be loved is to be known

There is no peace in this endless striving

No serenity in our feigned indifference

Where Eden fell

Where God gave back

We are merely sifters now

And I am but another chaff

Dare I try matter?

As a fighter do I seek the welt upon my heart:

Anonymity.

It is not my fingers who so love this tender prodding

Rather my own great invisible

Unknown

Silent Perseverance?

Perhaps

But the whispers all lie in the shiver of discovery.

Journals are never written for our eyes alone.

Perhaps quantity calls into question this fruition.

Vocabulary is all

Skill none

Inspiration may be seamless thought

Because I already talk too much