Saved Words Are Not Forgotten

A scrap of verse means more Than just the tattered paper it is written on. There are eclipsed dawns, witnessed by few And belated long midnights of supernova, That ought to be bottled, or distilled to be kept- But are poured out into verse, instead. The dry-docks of canning, The vaults of tomorrow, Pimped, by a heart; Martyred, in a locket. Saved from fires, floods and meteor showers Saved memories, from the harsh taskmaster of time. At the end of days, a hundred billion curls of scrawled passages Will crawl and hurl themselves, on stubby legs, Across the seasick ground, in every direction, Set free from cubbyholes and teapots and pocketbooks While pulsars blink from unsteady darkness. They contain blood and tears and saliva and lip smudges- Still pressed hard- Against the DNA of tomorrow's unsaid goodbye. Wherever hope lives threaded through linen, Dropped in blots, upon pressed cotton, Saved words are never forgotten- As long as the stars keep their orbits.