Open letters.

A Poem by i.am.the.sun.

Words written in their own time,
with the passion of the day,
love or hate,
or mild longing with an interest in small communication.
Sealed, saved, secured,
hid away within their own
very personal prisons,
or plush waiting rooms,
their papery pressed pulp purgatories.
The world passes them by as they pass over the world,
unbiased towards their destination
they make no efforts to stray,
their purpose is clear-
to express the words written in a time ago
by a heart which may or may not still beat in their direction.
A can of worms,
spring loaded confetti,
a ticking bomb,
a jar of edible butterflies,
an unopened but unshackled two dimensional cracker jack box of symbols you could learn to regret,
or not.
Harmless in their wrapping.
Still.
An opened letter,
when written in love will only ever do one of two things-
reinforce the status quo,
or bitterly remind you of how things used to be,
of what you lost,
of the little piece of paradise on the other side of that papery one way wormhole-
and the air trapped inside,
now poison
which you have already accepted into your lungs,
chokes you.
Open letters,
spent shells,
scars to show the efforts groaned for a prize that time always claims.
They are empty bottles,
missed appointments,
unfinished poems
and half booked travel plans.