Cariing to write

Do you know that my fingers
Would be feathers tipped with ink
If I was a poet?

But my mind lies to myself
In ways that I can’t keep up
With the failures of lines and words
Like these

Do you know that ink
Fades anyway with the paper it stains
That then, only if my name was
Grooved in corroding stone
Perhaps I could make my words
last a few years longer
but even with the great classics
and the controversial 20s
words never burn a birth
of phoenix
but in someone else

no one’s words remain
but in the inspirations of someone else
because every stains meaning
only breathes as ghosts
in the hollows
of the owner’s grave

living now or living at all
makes me dig my own grave
with each thought
that meanings even start
hiding themselves to my own soul
that purpose starts fading into grey
doves fluttering in and out
that it only exists as the beauty
for moments when they hover above my head
when God proclaims
“this is my son”
what will I take to Hell
confused and lost like Ovid
tempting to forget why
I die to fight for my words
Someday the “so”, “that” and “and”
Will have more meaning
Then the words after
For continueing
May be the only sense
In all of this