Is it a matter of writing implements that we write more
to say less, or—with the power of large numbers in play—
do we have to face the truth that we have always been
the blabbering sort, only back then largely confined
to a tavern and a church porch?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
No one writes anymore
to Poste Restante
that the billowing gloom
of fluff and puff
says more about longing
than the pristine sky—
unfortunately relaxing—
like when a handful of pages
proves more than a thousand,
whether one follows Norval
or his father on the Grampian Hills.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Lately, I’ve been told to open my heart, but how am I supposed to do that
without a surgical team—and performing unlicensed medical procedures
is punishable by several years in prison anyway—and live to tell the tale?
But if you insist it was just a misunderstanding—I’m familiar with idioms
and prying.
hidden pilcrow 