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Coherent Nothings
From the first coherent sentence,
there have been ink-stained hands
leaving prints on select souls and few regrets
using points and keys to paint the walls with the colors of joy and anguish
transformed to suddenly scribbling down phrases
in the corners of papers smeared with facts
that won't be remembered for next's week obligatory bubble filling
While the sentences flow like waves on a sandy shore
with ink that eases tattoos of Xs that mark the spots of uncontrollable mashing of thoughts
and wells of history so deep that if you threw a rock you wouldn't hear a splash
With yesterday's papers gleefully tossed into the breeze by another's hand
and the glowing letters of today that salute
forever remembering the stroke of a paddle and the hum of a silly tune
Until the final coherent sentence
when the tide recedes and the once sharp, crisp lines have faded into muted pictures
the walls will be plastered with the prints of youthful hands,
edged with creases and worn like the pages that ceased blowing the wind