It isn't so much that one cannot erase,
but that when one puts rubber to paper,
to turn a phrase,
the paper fights back.
smeared, smudged but basically
forgotten,
history leaves nothing behind. It carries in a satchel
all that it knows,
waiting.
There are some things so destructive they cannot be stopped. So the end comes... soft, sweet eventual. Until then, I am here, in the night, in a corner, waiting. If you join me, I won't bite until told.
It isn't so much that one cannot erase,
but that when one puts rubber to paper,
to turn a phrase,
the paper fights back.
