7 To W.
Nobody would care if my body becomes a crumpled
Scrap of paper, my legs and arms crippled by creases, cramped
Till they rip, wrinkles cracking not only my face -- my bones,
My eyes rippled, with any image distorted --
A scrap of paper
Smashed beneath the loaded lead of words,
With letters disrupted,
And reconnected in gibberish.
Nobody would care.