people have written about everything,
nothing has been left to be found.
I've tried to find what wasn't leftover,
but it's gone.
there's been poet's and scribes,
prophets and writs;
but they're gone,
for now.
until another one reincarnates.
again.
love is nothing new to us.
and war never changes too.
but what we write is just rhetoric,
maybe that is too.
what's written makes no sense.
but there's no more writing to be found.
weirdly how I'm writing,
what should've seemed so profound.
we've reached everything, but haven't found the end.
is writing just a super-task of infinitesimally unfinished words. or do you have to furnish all the poems with fancy oak and gold
