Our paperweight memories hang on
Like the calendar tearing its own pages
The edges unmade yet the cut runs deep
Scarred by empty dates you left to bleed.
The inks melt back into pure redundance
Losing all sense of value and meaning
The texts and tiles start to loathe existence
Shedding their hues and desire for being.
The days fall down like parched petals
Plucked and branded by the cruel sun
Their ashes swallowed by halfway moons
Waxed and waned by a loveless tune.
The weeks smothered by tempered nights
Slept soundly through the better months
Hoping to come awake in a freefall light
After the final sheet forsakes the dawn.