before all theology,
omni scribum,
because why this "void"
at the altar of my feet,
if i attach this feeble
scribble to make dues...
with this remnant
of thought,
that I attempt to conjure
with words...
prior "to"came a god
and scribbled...
pauper's lot as poet
compared to the chisel
of a sculptor
or brushstrokes of
a painter...
lost in tongue both
borrowed, kept, and later
made urbane...
thought is no
     barrier in which to
harbour excuses...
thought is no safety net...
  to seek life in
realising thought as double
the mortal claim of being:
fleeting....
poet? ha! an archaic term
for the: bibliophile journalist...
elsewhere either
toilet, or sandpaper...
the void I feel is only the void
that isn't supposed to be
written about...
because it was supposed
to be written as a fragment
of a truth, lived, within
a complete lie,
as a marriage of denial and doubt...
prior to the Alzheimer's
crucifixion of the mind...
funny, tender culinary terms...
hearts, stomachs, livers...
sleeper conscience...
a faking ****,
a writer, and a company of
elite, feline mutineers
ready to abhor life in favour
of "life", within the confines
of the antithesis of insomnia.