These hands of fire bled on paper
And stain the words in time,
A seminal test never fulfilled
The blockage of a writers rhyme,
But in the interweaving days
The topic is crystallised,
And abstract as it seems to me
Maybe one day humanised.
The sallow, lifeless substance held
By hands of tactless foes,
Incorporeal graven words
Perhaps no one knows,
Just what the secrets held by time
Deciphered, spell for us,
In shrouds of secrecy we’re bound
In our own sarcophagus.
27/12/08 ADO