Somestuff to
unblank these lines,
encrypted as they are
with syllables rejecting
penned-ink ‘less
composed completely.
Somestuff to
bring out these lines,
pre-written as they are
with their signature of
time ‘n tempo, traced
in rock-grey matter.
Somestuff to
release, release this
ink-spring from this fount;
tendons tuned to channel
through my grip my
abstractions.
Somestuff to
present to whom-
soever ever reads it.
Five thousand years etched
into sandstone stood
those fleeting thoughts.
Image credit – Encyclopaedia Britannica
william altoft 