Ode to the Right Brain

By the light of dawn,

I twist the words.

No longer letters,

but merely obscureds.

The opus was done,

such a long time ago.

Or was it just yesterday?

I no longer know.

Like breadcrumbs for pidgeons,

I toss the letters out.

Then try to stay strong,

and elude the blackhole of doubt.

Though in the end,

there's nothing to do;

but wait for the clock

to stop its backward skew.

I so miss the days,

when my characters were me,

instead of just hooks,

in a blood-stained query.