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To whom it may concern,

Allow me, if you will, to ramble a while
I’ve not written some wrongs of late
And your offer called for delayed alarm
Epistolary art
Along with similar pastimes
Are just that, relics of past times
Over with and done
Stuck in musty shelves
Floating in the corners of murky water minds
Reduced to memories floating in a soggy soul
In idle daydreams
Some already forgotten, replaced by other things
Were it to be considered an art form
To tap away at indifferent keys
Type-cast on pieces of characterless paper
Printed by a machine
It cannot be
Were really the ancestors of these hands
Capable of adept manuscript
Dear, as this is to me
It’s hard to believe
Or even to remember how
Sticky notes and scraps of paper
Replace vellum, and harsher mediums
Fingers that caressed raised letters
Are met like pieces of vagrant trash
Their respect has been lost
The ancestors of these hands, letter, and words
Rich with meaning and yearning for speech
Are now seldom spoken in any circle
And it never ends
The volturous words that haven’t meaning
Eat at the bony remains of past brilliance
Wasteful, arrogant, contemptuous creatures
Words, hands, formerly creating art
Now conduct a trade
In the business of “Whatever Sells”
Sorry to say Sir,
At present, future, and in the past, I am uninterested





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