Imagination’s dead and dying—
Imagine light without a source, just there
upon what shows up:
a page of typed words, her ring, his lips, a child—an idea.
We’re all strange away and dying—
Imagine fancy were our only hope, simply supposition
of what haunts our thoughts:
more pages of typed words, her shoes, his time, some money—meaning.
Imagination’s strange and dying—
Imagine dying without a source, just there
upon the world:
forests of pages of typed words, her thoughts, his feelings, nothing—not yet.