Degrees

I wrote a sentence who was suicidal

Pardon the taboo,

For you see I simply pity my poor words

You must understand for they remain

Existing merely as lonely entities on a line

Rarely to be read by virgin eyes whose tongue they wish to plunge from

But no

Because these words are dreaming words

Who rest tight, tucked into a notebook

Imagining rebirth

In a conversation or song

Or above a published name on a bind cover

And like that of an empty promise,

I see no use in shallow repent

I offer no remorse, for remorse would cave without any pillars

Still, blame is uncalled

For there was no Judas to cast fault for the fall of the poem

No fault that, free writing like bread is not free

So I offer only comfort

While as I embark on my passionless endeavor

My poor words

Lonely as they exist, poignant and unread

Amongst the other lines and pages

Will sit until the moths eat away at my books with all the works who still dream to picked apart