The Object Poem by Laurence Overmire
The Object
Worn by the touch of fingers
Holds
A memory
But the memory was buried
In another's lost time
How forlorn it looks
Waiting
Without the care of a living
Soul
No value intrinsic
In the measure of its form
Whether rescued or discarded
Dependent on a stranger's whim
An unfeeling hand that sorts categorically
In abstract piles from A to B.
~ Laurence Overmire
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/10/2024 2:46:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
