They're just words. They don't mean anything.
If you stop to consider them against
the absolute wonder of nature's decay, even news
from someone whom you always knew
was never really your friend
can no longer hurt.
Words you can always forget.
In between all the other meaningless things,
the crossed-out sentimental gibberish,
aborted thoughts of days, like any other,
unmemorable, except for their dull brass,
their cookie-cutter flavours,
their dubious romance
with the most common of common.
Nothing unique about them at all.
After you've unraveled them and laid them out flat
for all the world to see, what special specimen have they got for you?
Did they bring you anything resembling a lost continent;
a quicksilver verse or a dish of recovered innocence,
some microbe that just might stay?
Nay. They all sailed away, didn't they?
Words, words, words.
Language that you thought could
have at least understood.
Those poets and balladeers
with their empty hearts.
They left nothing behind. Except for all this junk
that doesn't even have the decency to fill.
tear that paper in half.
Tear that useless piece of paper in half.