a letter to myself

old mistakes and new chances. the past always leaves traces

A new sheet. The last.
The brilliant white shouts innocence
but it is about to be spoiled
by the rise and fall of my pen.

I start slowly,piercing the innocence with my nib,
ink spilling slowly from the wound.
I wait for it to heal, to clot over. Then blot it out.

No one knows
apart from the faint scars,
mere traces of the history that befell it.

A new sheet. The last.
It is not spoiled.