Sense

Another attempt at poetry.

Sense
Words dance before my eyes.
Letters mix that should not be mixed,
Yet they make sense.
The paper is old and crumpled and soft from the night's rain. I
Try to unfold it, not wanting to rip the delicate words. They
Look so soft and frail, as if one false crease would ruin them for good.
I try to hide the paper under my jacket, shielding it from the drizzle that
Is just beginning.
What to do now with these jumbled words on crumpled paper.
Why not start a fire of recompense?


-G Money