One was lost
to forcible hands,
twisting and bending,
bleeding on paper
smothered in ink stains,
crinkles on the page.

Not fine-tuned enough –
not willing to be a draft,
or a cause to let settle,
simmer and rehashed
in two months’ time;
no, one was eager.

One was desperate
to start the year,
falling short without
rhymes, riddles,
or expedition.
A few words scattered
trying to make something
in this world of sonnets,
fictions, and dreams.

One was lost,
until two came along.