Writing is a quest, a systematic unlearning,
Dropped from the pen like facts out of memory,
Carving parcels of thought blasted from a canon.
The search lasts my whole life, draining my wonder,
Paralysis by analysis medicating my spirit, weathering it
Into something ancient, a scroll for the underground.
The ink secretes my soul, drawing it out in strips of twine,
Mummifying it by all that speaks to me, changes me,
Obliviating what I once possessed into something more,
Disjointed pieces of the past built into lingual architecture.
When it's finished I'll have returned to the source,
The Babel of my birth, where all the words bear structure,
A library of life, my language sanctified in the pages of me.
Dropped from the pen like facts out of memory,
Carving parcels of thought blasted from a canon.
The search lasts my whole life, draining my wonder,
Paralysis by analysis medicating my spirit, weathering it
Into something ancient, a scroll for the underground.
The ink secretes my soul, drawing it out in strips of twine,
Mummifying it by all that speaks to me, changes me,
Obliviating what I once possessed into something more,
Disjointed pieces of the past built into lingual architecture.
When it's finished I'll have returned to the source,
The Babel of my birth, where all the words bear structure,
A library of life, my language sanctified in the pages of me.
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