The Desire To Be Paper

When I am paper,

Torn and moving in the wind,

There is shelter.

The desire to exist 

In this only place

Not yet filthy with my ink,

Or rather so full of it,

My eyes have adopted the view,

Like silent curses 

Tattooed onto my hands.

 

I am paper.

Paper-thin, persistent purity.

The railings in this place

Have seen intruders like me

For so long,

They look like old men.

And their wooden skin is peeling off,

Becoming paper in the wind,

Starved of humanity ,

So they search for meaning on my hands.

In this place 

The flowers are so yellow,

They are sun-burning my eyes.

And I'm blinded with the wonder of it,

So I melt into my puddles

Of the thickest, heaviest ink

Of remorse.

 

I am dust now.

Torn into pieces,

Carried by the wind,

Waiting to imprint myself

Onto someone more meaningful,

Who doesn't shelter

When they sink.