If I were a sent letter,
the timing was not right.
I could change my address,
but it would not be right.
I would send myself,
on a journey far away.
to a pale grey sky,
hoping to be read,
needing to be a re-wright.
Hiding from the wind,
and travailing from the light.
If I were a letter sent out to you,
you would read the pages,
and not know what to do.
Weather its to save me,
or give me to someone new,
weather to erase me,
or return me from whence I flew.
If I were a letter describing who I am,
even if you read me,
you would not understand.
