marked in my purest form

and coined in memoriam,

pinched from myself

with a nominal loss,

aged and without

yet without end,


a bare


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.