Maybe, Not Knowing

Some words were written

To be spoken

Some words were written

To be read

And all the words that are written

Will survive their author

Long after

We all leave a piece behind

There’s other people breathing

The air

In spaces I no longer dwell

Their dreams and nightmares

Mingling in the

Etherium

With the scent of ex-lovers

Above the spot where there

Used to be my bed

It’s springtime in Albany

And a little ray peaks

Jaundice through the slate grey

Sky

While we all live under

Lock and key

And there’s a certain futility in trying to

Find meaning

In the chaos of this

But maybe that’s where the

Beauty is

In the not knowing

What words are (to be) written

To be spoken

Or what words are (to be) written

To be read

And that long after

They survive

Sometimes in the cold

Rain of late April

Or is it early

May?

I wonder at all the

Words not written

To be spoken

All the words not written

To be read

That float fleeting

Like the ghost of a

Transient memory on

The wind

All the untold stories

Lost to the

Confusion

Of time