Dead letters

A fist clenches around the disintegrating cinders of a note once treasured,

Now burned out it holds no further meaning,

The words cruelly torn away from the canvas of what was once merely xylem,

Now it has returned to the air from which it was derived,

Finally it has a chance to start again,

An opportunity to be reconfigured for a greater purpose,

One that has no recollection of its past sins,

Of its passive blasphemy,

When the fist relaxes its digits the cinders have disappeared,

There is nothing left but a black stain,

An appropriate colour for the atrocities that had once left their mark on the deadly parchment,

The dead letters never to be read again.


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