I don’t remember writing these notes.
Some old thoughts, some potential ideas,
lost motes of worries, dreams,
fears? Quietly resting in the black book,
blue pen poured across the last page.
It’s my writing, years old, and translation
has been lost to age, far past the expiration date,
with no chance left for meaning or intent.
But, at least, it inspired two stanzas,
and produced some art by accident.