To Whom It May Concern

Word banks are all these are  
Each writing a deposit, with interest,
But nothing to spend them on.  
They fall under dead eyes  
And rarely take form
My life in a self-addressed, stamped envelope
  
In Egypt they called her Knut  
She alone could snuff out Ra for hours at a time,  
A great blue banner,  
She was the heavens. 
She lives today, and reaps death even now.  
My life in a self addressed, stamped envelope 
With insufficient postage  
 
Months ago--(there was a building here)
Tonight weeds and cracks in the pavement
If in waning age this is all that is left  
So be it  
I'll be watching 
My life in a self-addressed, stamped envelope  
With insufficient postage, 
Returned to sender nonetheless.  
  
To think of noise in colors, 
It makes sense without light and company 
At all hours, the whites, pinks, reds, browns, purples, blues, greys, and oranges,  
Underscored by 60 cycle hum, and the neverending green,  
All mirrored:  
1/f\337,  blackness.  Darkness.
Perhaps a ruse.  
My life in a self-addressed stamped envelope,  
With insufficient postage,
Returned to sender nonetheless.
I fear these words may die-
  
In the breaks of sparse streetlights,   
You can only imagine the company you keep
On a quarter-lit road,  
Enclosed by frozen marshland,  
Loneliness is a lie 
It behooves one keep one's own company  
The return trip yields a different light,  
And the sounds come from the wrong direction.  
I imagine peace might be like this-  
My life in a self-addressed stamped envelope,
With insufficient postage, 
Returned to sender nonetheless.  
I fear these words will die,  
And leave no forwarding address.  
  
 There are alternatives to interference and blackness 
Perhaps the "out of town" slot was the wrong choice-  
To whom am I speaking?