how much of me
is written –
to the rafters
of your heart
a purple painted
flower
faded now
what of words
I worried with –
were washed out
by the flood
letters set to sail
beyond your touch
what of ink
has stained your hands
worn your fingers blue
a rhyme
no longer worthy
but to curse
were there pages
still to ponder –
moments meant to keep
safe within the
memory
of verse

. . .