Why search purposefully fabricated, lying walls,

That trashy sweet gum, this August depletion;

Listening for the….A…purveyor of truth?

Again, I enact this sweet, silencing ritual

With little nuance; certainly with no perfection.

With paper…neatly creased, and pen gently held

I smile, waiting for Muse to tweak the light.

Muse is our deliverance…or…our false prophet;

Which? “Ignorance is bliss.” Just give me light!