Inaccuracy Poem by Matt Salvador

Inaccuracy of existence.

Unless you are here for a reason, your phantom pushing and pushing, what for?
You're like a wrinkled body of a cloth, or a forgotten script. What now if you fasten my hands into your entrails? These are all answers I have to invent- instinctive, unwise, unsolicited. Somewhere, I had to point out the differentiating margin between speaking too much and conveying so little, and the finite range of silence sensing outsomething in you, about you, and arriving here.

Why are you here? What are you doing? - what must I be when you are not? (mggsalv)