making it

i may remain in flux...
incapacitated by nothing more
than for want of
becoming a witness
for a while...

to produce is the game
the product is
but an empty
remnant...

the mark a killer leaves
for your forensics to uncover
as the printed leaves
of dropped after imaginings
from the glare of bulb flicking on
in semi-inspirational flashes

and it pops out
the dreamed thing
like an old polariod
plopped on the welcome mat
through quasi-sensory letterbox
into an open dialogue
of a zero potential made anew

the wonder of the process
and the petit mort
of the actuality
it describes itself
perfectly

trying too hard
is the death of all authors
resting laurels on global ambitions
while craft is never mended
in unflinched safety of crypto-abandon

wait for reaction
wait forever
do not wish to hear
the sound of clapping
for it is the sound of
the faithful catalyst
falsity walks you down
the aisle in a blessing
made of dead flowers
and the rice hurts
when it strikes
a teetering insanity
smiles with you
understanding nothing
but wanting to look like it does

i am only able to compare with
the finks on normal duty roster
left with a pain
won't go away
pen will get placed
brushes gets sat down
eyes closed tight
lips murmer
sleep returns
and with it
dreams of the new
waste of time
may come