A Lost Art

Letters, 

Innocent, unbroken hearts spilled onto paper,

Writing, running, dancing across the page.

Delicate like the spider weaves her web, 

Each line, each word deliberate. 

 

A lost art,

Swallowed by the neverending rabbit hole, 

Inkwells run dry, 

A feather now a child's plaything.

Mailboxes occupied by threads of silk, and their inhabitants.  

 

Words paint pictures,

More magnificent, more detailed 

Then any work of art. 

 

The ability we’ve lost,

To create worlds with our words,

To say what we mean, and mean what we say,

To spill our hearts out onto the page,

To converse without sound.

 

Letters,

The fading ghost of a lost art.