Dear Stranger

[Lady Byron]

This is the letter I had been meaning to write.
Where Forgiveness is in every other line.
With sincerity soaking into every word.
Like the sweat, blood and tears that burst from every pore.
There filtered through and stained what was once snow white.
This is the letter I had been meaning to write.
When the words I could not find could only be described.
The words that could be painted on a canvas.
Instead of saying them aloud.
Words will be words, unless emotion driven.
This is the letter I never written.
Yet always came back to.
Would start it with the best intro and now know how to finish.
Would not where to start but, how it ended.
Anxiety driven and broken with mad laughter.
This is the letter that was left for me.
The thought that kept hidden from sight.
For fear of the truth behind their meaning.
Thought utterly meaningless, yet meaningful to me.
Not a care, not one bit of feeling.
This was the letter that I forget to whom it concerns.
If anything it holds no significance.
These words you glance over casually with hungry eyes.
Driven by some sort of passion or maybe, just boredom.
Starting an excavation of the mind to find some sort of hint.
The feelings, the thoughts, the allusions.
This is the letter that declares nothing.
It will never make a statement and stick to it.
It will jump from topic to topic.
Make no sense at all but, to some all the sense in the world.
No longer being fueled by the thought of mind but, of heart.
This is where the letter ends.
This is where your thoughts begin.
Where the feeling begun.
Where the cares are ending.