I reach and cut a round hole in a square piece of card

and hang it on my wall, for all of mine to see

name it 'despair', that part of me, that

proceeds to extinguish all that touch,

frightens insects from the white

surface, scratched cold

barren, bereft.

 

But as, by whim

my friends they visit, I'm

found laughing at the trinket, how

and why this reason flew and settled.

I feign that I cannot now recall, perhaps

a keepsake from some forgotten day, some

trinket forgot, my mind a slave to time's petty theft.