marked in my purest form

and coined in memoriam,

pinched from myself

with a nominal loss,

aged and without

yet without end,

craving

a bare

focus

of light

*

through life as the ages:

romance – without subject,

obsolete and without power –

non-functioning to now without purpose;

so if even I could operate

in the way I was designed,

you'd get only a touch of utility

and not the sense time

with some comment like,

"Oh, so that's what It does?"

*

A postmodern mien –

renaissance of worthless absurdities,

"magnificent" debutants,

falsely-gotten uncertainties

-

One heyday,

two years ago

but my, we are forgotten

while dying with words from the edge your mouth.

-

"Hey, have you seen This?

Well, you've got'ta get It.

I can't live without Mine."

*

A splinter of framing past,

well-known by the impoverished –

dust in history's corner,

titled link without page.