Poetics

It’s time.
I scrape my roots. Absurdities come to mind.
Everything simulates chaos.
Periods and commas
connect like spirals: there is only desire.
I preach sublime messages.
The haze softens my foundations: there are only attempts.
The undiscovered realm emancipates,
When an extempore idea scares me: I devour my roots.
Being a rhizophagus disquiets me.
As much as the prodigiously rational.
In the last minute,
A collage of withered asyndeton
Makes me doubt.
A long period of pain
and short sparks of grace wait to praise me
Or to condemn me to the ablegation.