Writing in its beginnings was a sacred, a holy thing. Written words lived after their writer died and centuries later spoke to those reading them. A timeless power existed within them for which there was no accounting in time without recourse to the timeless.
To say time is paper
roots paper in earth, air, water,
sun and trees. In a paper age
pens write on all of these.
Time has had eyes and ears
for words long before Gutenberg
filled hours with reading matter,
people set against eternal motion,
not moving if they’re talking,
or stopping if they’re walking
with time on their hands. Nothing
to mention if you’re a bird,
or reference, were paper not given,
and pens not averse to blank paper.
And truth not causing them to pause.
Much reason for rumination,
plus anxiety in the face of gravity.
This is a dire fate for worlds of pens
quite aware of their raison d’etre:
to disclose the soul of meaning
and tell time what matters in life.
Isn’t this asking too much of a pen?
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