A paper lies, folded in half
Wedged between the jaws of entry.
The threshold-
Waving softly in the bitter wind
And I come home,
Only to find a sweetly written voice
Gives
Blindness to the miserable reader
And I cry, fresh sanguine tears
With screams that rest
In decaying shadow.
A messenger, a wind, brings-
Peaceful
Dismay when that paper is destroyed
But words written by morbid regret
Cannot reincarnate to the unknown-
Insanity.