Woven, connected,
Grown
Then extracted,
Compressed,
Then stretched,
Then shipped to the masses.
Adding graphite or ink
makes plain paper think.
Not IT's thoughts are shown,
But stained by my own.
As part of what's real,
This paper, i feel
Has birthed a thought into existence.
Fertilized by pen,
This thought can be read,
From the womb of the dead
Cut down by human,
With no visible dread.
This paper, quite possibly, had thoughts of its own.
As it lived in the forest, if it's life it had known.
And no way to record them into intepretable realms,
So a favor, I hope, to offer to them:
"There's nothing like a sunny day.
Except a rainy one.
My life is done.
goodbye."
