I call my composition,
A manifold of confessions;
A moral mind in hysterics;
And a turnabout of an estuary.
There, there, I can promise a question,
“Have I waited all this time?”
To those who quell so deeply,
Of a time where a transcript was only born;
And I say, a wondrous, wondrous, scandal for the mind,
The complexity and gravity of such thing,
I observe with increasing interest and become invested in its anomaly—
And absorbed of its fashion spleen upon sight.
And I say, with all my excitement (to get rid of my thoughts),
With its absorption to perish our thoughts,
Then, there, I can promise—
In a world that can stop.