You author reality with metaphors
and verb to make a living
while the ghost writers circle
like carrion birds, waiting to rip
your soul from your flesh.
You, a palimpsest, have shed
covers, switched genres, crossed out
every adjective you used to be;
and I, your avid reader, await
your next page, enthralled
and close to tears, overlooking
You pull yourself in, deliberately,
abruptly peaceful in your fate: being
a minuscule point of space, a short line through time.
You call it progress but I resist,
caressing the dials of my perceptions
to watch you bloom
in all directions, infinitely, like a fractal-soul,
which is, after all, just a point, a line,
multiplied forever. Or
in other words, your full potential.
How to make magic: evoke
stunning beauty in three words or less;
imagine like a goddess
building a brand new world; run
without moving; cry
at pretty sorrows; and laugh
at endings, for you keep
no faith in absolutes.