Remnants
It’s later than you think
or maybe sooner
they’re all that are left now
the letters waiting
ready
to be formed into words
must try to sort themselves
into words
that will never be spoken.
And the words already written
the manuscript
unread
ready
for a reader
who will never find them
never read them.
And the colours
of paint
and paper
fabric
clay
ready
to be put together
reformed into a beauty
never to be seen
or even imagined.
And the worn clothes still warm
almost
almost warm
already worn
stuffed into black bags
ready
to be worn
again.
All that remains
now
it’s later than you think
or maybe sooner.
Too late for them
anyway.
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