The tissues are scattered

like delicate white doves

with scrunched up bodies

and untainted wings

flying together

trying to reach

but contrained

to the height of the ground.

Like petals of a white rose

beautiful but useless

as they lie dead

after being plucked

from the flower

and their siblings.

They wish to be

like the scattered clouds

drifting in the sky

slowly moving

as an unconnected

unity,

part of the great sky

but not chained

to a standard or norm.

Not paper cut outs

or cookie cutter

pieces spit out

by a churning machine,

but the last desperate plea

of humanity.

A last spotch of paint

on the cango canvas

to spell out the last image

of a dying artist.

The last words spilled out

onto a page

telling the story

of a dying generation

of writers.

These tissues lay on the floor,

having experienced

too many tears

to be barred into

the shelter of its box.

It is time

to fly