“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, April 8, 2018
id est (in other words)
The ink pot solidified
in the -unpreventable- evaporation
of
all things
considerable.
Words were
the only way we could try
to grasp the conceptual -framework-
of the time
it takes
to become
a person, place or thing.
Of late,
it is more common than not
to notice the disappearance of
what
seems -indescribable- where only by means
of observation
could we conserve our precious
resources.
Artwork by Hugo Charlemont in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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