jamjar of apostrophes
On the mantelpiece, gathering apostrophes, stands the jamjar
Never seeming to get full despite
A steady stream of infilling punctuations
That claim to be the real thing,
Though they may simply be
Misplaced commas.
Whence it came we know not
Nor the jam contained
Within its glass rotunda,
Spread out on bread
And washed, long since,
From the sweet of communal consciousness.
Unlikely as it is, in the jamjar
Gathers the dust of failed scribes
And victims of progress,
Sentenced to be read by others
In the twilight of expression,
The false dawn of a new age.
As it slowly fills, so dies the light…