The beautiful thing
About words
Is the way they
Prove
We’re living

Through a phrase
Which keeps
Enduring
Despite what eyes
Should grace

Or believe
That page which
Turns
And bemoans
Those quiet judgments

When readers
Choose
Such meaning
Despite how ink
Can change

In time
Not always sure
Their opinions
Have much
Reason

For condemning
Faded margins
Still imbued
By God’s
Right hand

Bleeding souls
On empty space
Trading paper
For art’s
Sickness

Swearing fires
Spread His message
Atop heads
Whose passions
Burn

Scribbling text
No man escapes
Leaving lines
Like age
Incarnate

Now immortal
After chasing
Fame as hollow
Found
Near death.

I am proud
My verse exists
But alone
This need not
Matter

Learning flesh
Prohibits glory
Playing roles
While feelings
Last.

– J. Pigno