Creasing pages with dried up wrinkles
dust mites moving across the page,
Words crowding inside the folds
are deteriorating as they age.
Words that were penned so long ago
from inside the writer's brain,
Oh that we could iron them out
so they would remain
intact with all of their meaning.
Instead, we have lost the best
of what we cannot see.
Was it humor, drama or satire?
Only the mite knows best.
Edwina Reizer's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (THE MITE by Edwina Reizer )
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