Still-born are these dreams—
Never meant to be remembered.
What are the meanings of memories?
Some collect forgotten dust,
Though many roam freely
From lobe left to right.
I'm reminded, "Freedom is not free."
But of which currency does he speak?
Spoken words tip the scales
In favor of pens flowing ink.
Gold will buy nothing here.
My heart bleeds black and blood
Over pages and pages—
Dollar signs and senseless words.
The Roman alphabet will not last forever.
The hands of poets are ephemeral.
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