Sonnet XVI

Men made the written word to leave behind
The treasure of himself for everyone
In futile hope that words and humankind
Are more than ash in brown and black and dun.
False hope! All men and words herein remain,
They can’t escape their mortal destiny,
And all our keen, prodigious minds contain
Is but the effluent of entropy.
Abandon hope, you writers everywhere!
Don’t bank on words to ransom any soul,
The plunder of your pen you loving share
Was minted for the nothing long ago.
And that, of course, is why all wise men write
Knowing their inks are black and blue graphite.

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