End of transmission

As words die out, their absence take me in, to the worst of nothing left. 
At last my strangerism is done. 
And along with it the anti-pioneerism that seemed to define me.

All the nouns that once colered this life.
Living fragments. Compass points.
Gone. And I am left. 
Restless. Rootless. Silenced.

So it all ends. By-it-self. As seasons change. 
As night turns to day.
And what a night it has been!

Oh skillful page turner,
Rightdoer,
This notebook is now shredded, its pages torn into infinite little pieces.
 
For I know those words will never live again. 
As this body of mine will never hold them, as it once did.
And I realize it, startled.

For I am left, bodiless; wordless one.
Stripped from the little dots that used to gracefully fill out this blank page that I am.