It’s the past that crafts
your origami heart.

Fold the page into a shape,
that makes you who you are.

Once folded it never quite goes back,
lines on the white, darkened to black.

You come out again from the dark
and I open the door.

Tear it up you shout
so you see it no more

These creases of ours:
Tales of dragons and white ships...
Neatly folding sheets.

This scrap piece of paper
Could have been a plane
But, instead, it's a poem by me;
Not burnt into vapour,
Folded like a crane,
Or anything else it could be.

This scrap piece of paper,
Now scrap more than ever,
Because I have added these words,
Which now start to taper,
Because I'm not clever
Enough to write of paper birds.

This scrap piece of paper
Has no more left to give
Apart from the next three forced lines;
It won't save the tapir,
Teach you how you should live,
Or help you pay old parking fines.