Letter

He told me that
He thought he was a letter,
That he was being written,
Though being allowed to
Write something of himself.

He told me that he
Had been, at last,
Given a value, a purpose,
That he was the pen and ink,
The paper- that he was a message,
Perhaps more, a story
To be listened to
Without comment, response.

He told me this in his
Quiet, and canny way.

Tears blurred his eyes,
And he was afraid that
He would wet the paper.

I enveloped him to stop
His ink from running.

by Robert Wylie

Comments (1)

ohh love the metaphor!