Wasted Words

He has written a million letters,
Heavy as lead, light as feathers,
To the love of his life, the one,
The one for him under the sun,
They all pile up next to the desk,
Forming shapes strangely grotesque,
No one will ever know of his words,
Wasted on deaf ears, ravens and birds,
Will all burn, when his soul he returns,
All turning to ashes when it burns,
Words wasted as words usually are,
Not funny not sad just bizarre,