I Am This

I am nothing,

The rattle of car keys in empty vases.

Who are you?

An often asked question, though rarely answered by those such as me.

But, I suppose, I can be defined by Potter's Fields, unmarked graves.

And printed paper, ink drying in the morning's wind.

I can be defined by this.

The simple way of words,

These lovely letters, floating from the dark.

So I am nothing, and yet

I am everything.

The End

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