isn’t it absurd?
isn’t it absurd
that you deny strangers
entry into your home,
but you let my words,
sit and simmer in your most sacred space,
your mind?
how is it so
that I can pinch your senses
even though I’m
hundreds of miles away?
how is it so
that my words are better travelled
than me?
that I can dip into my
sorcerer’s satchel,
swirl some words on the page
and shock you
as if I held a live wire to your body?
that I can dispatch
my little sidekicks,
these squiggly characters
we call words
and they find refuge,
when you nod along?
what sorcery is this?
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