You wonder,
ears curled in on themselves like hunched over drunkards,
when your art became objects.

The artifacts hang,
from frayed skeleton string,
stretched and whittled like string-bean veins.

Your hand itches,
like distilled water as thunder growls overhead,
and you know it is reaching for a pen.

No longer,
can you stare into the mirrored engravings,
and see fleshed out  words.

Scant nothings,
hum their prayers up into the sky,
but you do not follow.

There is,
time for you yet,
and art is not reality.