the alarm rang
yet the sheet of paper
just lay still

the words written
upon its pulped flesh
promised more
yet these daydreams
seemed farther
from fruition

were these thoughts
of wildflowers
its own
or the will of another
tattooed upon
its tattered soul?

the sheet of paper
didn’t know or couldn’t tell
but the constant ache
let it know
it was still alive

today was not
a day for toiling
but for picking at scabs

what more proof
of a soul could one
sheet of paper
possibly require
than that?