“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label i.e.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i.e.. Show all posts
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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