It’s thin. The paper lying before
him, and the paperweight’s skin
resting upon it; the depth of the
graphite pressed into the albus

page with the apathetic exigency
of have-tos and owe-it-to-thems;
the kerning and strokes of the
languid letters barely scoring its

surface; the flimsy wording and
porous reasoning behind a veil
of half-hearted half-truths; the
syncopated lips in imperceptible

recitation to the mindless thrall;
the slits wherefrom lacteolus orbs
peer thru the erubescent scarring
of fatigue; the breathing of shallow

waves slowly floating to the shores
of expiry, and receding weaker on
return; the connections tethering
him to consciousness and binding

him to corporeality; the pavlovial
response to a delicate tap on the
door by a deserves-better; the guilt
deliquescing in the darkness, and

evanesce of light into absolution

art: by Christophe Hohler