what is to be said for all the bags of unused words that we have piled up.
piles of sentiments delivered in hushed tones
intricate superlatives and properly insulated nouns.
a very small novel was produced-- one that could light the senses.
but isn't fascinating?
isn't it?
it all goes away to playing in the sunshine
ice cream that melts and falls onto the sidewalk
disappearing from taste like the mirrored self at the end of a unfinished book
there are still the writings of the summer
1 comment:
so very true!
Post a Comment