Tired of Flies
Fortify reluctance,
'til invibed of texture,
related, unrelated
of reality.
Stop.
I cannot see.
I am a blank paper
waiting for four year olds
with crayons to fill me
with some vivacious
nonsense.
Reason,
the idolater.
Yet it speak and I shall
forfeit sanity.
I am a cup,
poured as blood upon
an alter,
still unaltered of alteration.
Yet puce.
Stop.
I cannot see. |