I know not why I write these,
Obscene clandestine and unseen,
These strings of words that make sense,
Only for a few, not me.
Now they lie dusty unnoticed,
Except the few that still keen,
And even they have gone and left,
These words to keel into the deep.
The echoes of what once was,
The depth of a broken sea,
Now a pond of letters, a soup, a brine,
Foul and seething.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoetrySecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
