Too many. Those scarce words were too much
A sore they were as if calling a rumor
From all the air that was exhaled
From people everywhere
That were born before
In time gone long ago
And yet to be born
But not open to life
As life was closed
Always to them
A key less door
It remains so
As such
This white or colourless pause
With plenty of life to spare
A whiff of clouds in the blue
Of sitting-here-
