If the place which I write from is seen as real
it seems the verse and myself are two
sides of three faces.

Each word has its meaning and is part of a tale
which might well be translated as
me signing my name.

Yet from my inside I catch first breath of Muse
who since noting acceptance begins        
her bid to relate.

Lipless the language that fills my blank canvas
as more semantics she whispers
before they escape.

Thus must I question what does that make me ?