A muse. A ruse. A Conspiracy.

A muse. A ruse. A conspiracy
that the Universe concocts to shock
what had been rock-solid—

a dream founded on the mist
of confusion and anxiety, and
a certificate of discharge
from the healers who saw me;

on paper and scissors and stones.

I will cut through this—

like a blade through the wood
around these cylinders of graphite;

like charcoal that leaves its mark
on the purity of these white sheets;

like noises that split the air
between treble and bass, and
gives definition to my hopes
in a handful of words.

You will be disturbed
but only in the best way
that you can possibly imagine.