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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