Today is nothing but a word,
Bearing no resemblance to what it fails to represent,
A pair of phonemes posing as a presence
Forming nothing in the substance of its claim.
So with every word.
So with every sentence.
So with every dialogue extinguished at the moment of release
And clinging tenuous to meaning even only as it’s heard.
Uttered in a passing without thought,
Scraps of voices telling stories carefully without
A plot and stripping down the climax at its root
To find a conflict in a turn of phrase.
So I wax poetic yesterdays in order to correct
The typos that I make today,
To saturate with connotations
Something altogether meaningless.