[3] PAPER EMPIRES
They've come here before,
and they've left us with this:
paper empires, thrones of ink,
easily destroyed by the things
that we've clung on to as lifelines.
Photographs:
framed and immortalized
instances that never happen twice.
They hang on flaking walls, existing
when every second uncaptured
ticks by forgotten and worthless.
Birth Certificates, Death Certificates:
proofs of our existence and absence
in a world that quickly deteriorates,
kept hidden between words
that make us temporarily forget,
ignore who we are and how we are
bound to come and go.
We're destined to be great, I'm sure.
But fire can burn them effortlessly
into dust, water can tear them apart
just as simple. And air—
can kill the words and images
in our heads with a sweep.
We've sat on thrones of ink, and built
ourselves our paper empires.
And we've lived on it,
willingly and stupidly.
And when everything collapses,
we can only ask ourselves:
Have we ever lived until our fall?
Have we ever lived to say at all?
YOU ARE READING
Witherland
PuisiAgain: precarious. When blood remains, I see the world tripping over the edge of the sword, red and forgotten. They drop, drop, drop-- balance. And we fall endlessly. [a poetry series by alice © 2017]
