The letter slips to my lap,
a nearly forgotten map.
Where do the graphics direct?
The traces do not fear to select.
The countless unsuccess hours
in addition to the spent months in black.
The checkmate.
Down-to-earth sort of man slams,
the heat rises in the cheeks,
the dismissive slip of the tongue seeks.
Bit by bit, restlessly,
a tongue submits to say;
sorry, no worry.
No intention to hurt anyone including itself.
I do taste the promise of what life would be like,
in due time.
Kommentit