That you would balance—or else can­cel me: was the ini­tial dream, the cog­ni­tive hand I was dealt. From birth
And for­ward, the future of our myth took to melting-pot vil­lages, where word is spread and you never need lift
A weapon. Or so I was told. To tear a score in half and save the finale for later: is effi­ciency. The duty
Of the Prophet is to figure—the most fas­ci­nat­ing way to infil­trate another’s wardrobe of passions—yet not
For­feit his long-term influ­ence. I leaned in then, and learned your the­ory for trust. The sym­phonic high
Achieved by uncer­tain terms—the guests sec­ond guess­ing; the dis­ap­point­ment act; a pause pol­ished to per­fect
The Grand Entrance made me think upon myself as “the min­strel,” and you as “the designer” of my spir­i­tual
Dis­guise. After show—show after show, I thought you were watch­ing. When my syn­thetic per­for­mance rose
And fell on the world’s deaf hemi­spheres, min­utes passed like stand­ing. Ova­tion. Any move­ment I believed
Could last for­ever. To wait on wind and fee­ble hope that the beloved cre­ator will soon return and take back
The mate­ri­als that haunt you—until all you have are days to fill—until finally, a telegraph—is why I held
That note so long. Why a quiet walk from the stage to the gal­lows of dawn is made eas­ier with­out a soul
In sight. I took sam­ples from the earth to make light of man and the inad­e­qua­cies required to wor­ship
The ground you lied on: the sense­less blur between noise and song and harp, the fear that one has crossed
The lines that keep bod­ies from touch­ing, hold loy­alty over pun­ish­ment, find fal­lac­ies woven through any man
–uscript that fain dis­prove the unknown. You see, evi­dence is every­where. Your belated let­ter. My scar­let robe—