Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Schrödinger’s Poet

I wonder. If I erased
All the honesty,
The candor about lying,
The love and the doubt,

If I self-censored
These ruminations
On implausibility,

If these words and I
Stopped fencing, wrestling, waltzing
Through the woods inside this skull,

If I built a carapace
Of flattery for the facts
Of this changeling universe,
Would I even half exist?

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