Not. Lost.

Perhaps I’ll carve it
into stone.

Perhaps I’ll etch it
onto time.

Perhaps I’ll layer it
through light.

Perhaps I’ll paint it
‘cross the night.

Perhaps I’ll capture it
for them.

Perhaps they’ll find it
on the ark.

Perhaps they’ll assemble
the bones.

Perhaps they’ll interpret
the rhyme.

Perhaps the hieroglyphs
will speak.

Perhaps the capsule
will be cleared.

Perhaps the words
will live again.

Perhaps their eyes
will pierce the dark.

Perhaps my writing
will be read.

Perhaps my ink-blue thoughts
weren’t lost.

Perhaps in mem’ry
it’s appeared.

Perhaps it’s sought; they found;
they’ll seek.

Perhaps it’s known; it’s heard;
it’s said.

Perhaps it’s ‘pon their world
embossed.

Perhaps it’s not.

Perhaps it’s lost.

• Publish later
• Then carve it into stone

Image credit – The Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge