confined-incomplete to a place.
Never holding the desire
to be a phantom in silhouette,
spoken about from a detached voice,
etched onto a page of verse
that was written, with or without
love or adoration
by those who told storied emotions.
Entities, strewn of inky black phantoms
running together over dead-leafed parchment,
never wanting to be sentenced to life
extended, with a possibility of immortality,
long after desires have flickered
and time has passed.
Shelves of text, ancient to modern, filled
with others who never asked, living
among new creations spawned from old.
A life borne into being by pen and type.
Stories of private moments,
real or imagined, unveiled for the world
to judge levels of discretion and decency.
Held and cherished until the close.
A match struck is able to breach
four hundred fifty-one degrees of misery,
violated by time. Then, once again,
the printed return
back to shelves to gather dust, lost.
Always remembered, only to be forgotten,
over and over again… and again.