Eraser

Quiet heart, what’s left to say?

You’ve been summed up, nothing remains to disclose.

Candid intentions fall, grace is called upon too frequently.

The Keeper of Time wears a knowing nod and grease stained fingers,

The only artist to have never reached for an eraser.

But I am captivated by word documents, floods, and fire

Which take back words and leave no traces.

Who can make straight lines through tainted eyes?

Listlessly, I crumple up another potential piece

Never to question what it may have been.

Each page will bring progress, something learned, something changed.

I can only hope to make something worthwhile before the paper runs out.