and what is it, you might ask,
if it is more than what it seems
but less than what it is?
muses, softly and sweetly,
the hair brushed back and yet
emptiness is at the crux of your being,
similarly sordid, strikingly selfish
and silently scaling symphonies,
show me, if you will,
the sickly ego from
which you might produce the aforementioned
sighs, those eternal scraps,
mere semicolons in such an otherwise
open your eyes
for at present you will see nothing.