In the dustbin

take the past

like used paper

and throw it in the paper bin

with a crumpled crunch

it is of no use

except to signify

the number of drafts

which have made

the tedious

contours of the final final.doc...

but also scramble the next second

to fetch the paper

that was rolled into a ball

and read what it says

different it seems

by its mere displacement

so next time

maybe it can be smudged

with blue ink

folded in two

making a butterfly pattern

making it impossible to read

the words that imprison

as a page in a forsaken diary

which no one wants to read

if only time could be beaten to pulp

like paper-mache

and hung like a mask on the wall

I would not find a muse

in the dustbin of the past

craving for the digital sound

that sounds like a crunch