And if it was to be that i found my true humanity and it made me scream,
myself the author of the portrait of who i seem or mean to be, shall i
tear the manuscript apart, reveling in my flawed attempt at the creation
of flawless art?
And if it happened that the muse one day abandoned me an orphan,
carrying with her the violence of my poetry, leaving me a cracked fountain
from which water would never spring forth from, would madness of vanity,
in the form of unbroken pens, breaking when handed to me, would their
ink transfer from my stationary to leak upon my sanity, would i
vanish into some contrived, trivial casualty of artistic fantasy?
And in the event my words are taken from my hands and breath,
what part of me would be left?
And in the event my hands no longer write, in arts sepulchral quest,
what, if anything, of me would be left?
Would anything at all of me be left?