These are words.
I write them down.
One piece of paper.
No sound.
Words are words.
Letters beget letters.
Non-peril meaning lingers on the words that fester.
Words in the spindle fall from age to age.
Ligatures and looping lines made so fine.
Lacking identity in the shallows of time.
Two words, a dime.
Three, a nickel.
Make them count…
Trickle, trickle, trickle.
Drop by drop they fall from fingers…frailty of meaning…conciseness repose.
To write is to write is to write is too…
Words are read, but words are dead: subsumed by time.
Only fleeting thoughts and rhymes never properly considered.
Regarded with little heed, unless in error and then disfigured.
