These lines are yet
But nothing more
Than windows to
An open door
Not song
Nor prose just
Metaphors of
Quiet thought
And little more.

And words that fall
Upon this page
In rhythms of a
Keyboard's rage
Are reminders not
Upon my sage.

Each letter just
A symbol lost
Beneath a sea of
Pixels tossed
To wait in watch to skies above
For the love of death
Or the death of love.