These days the words are conspiring
shifty and slithery
appearing innocent
standing in wait for you
then melting and dripping
unfocused and hazy
obscured
insignificant as your eyes gloss over them.
when you narrow down on them
clasp them tight with obstinacy
you become lost in their intricacies
the admirable stature of the b
and the tight curl of the e.
but they're hollow
empty shells.
you've reached the end of page 56
and you realize that the marrow
was never there in the words.
they conspired.
you shut the textbook
and sigh, rubbing your head
blaming lack of sleep
or perhaps lack of interest
but deep down you're certain
the words on page 56
only pretend to explain macro-economics.
they are mischievous little characters
playing tricks
slithering and dancing
slipping and sliding all over the place
and fleeing once you stare them down
so what's left are shells--
page 56 is nothing but empty shells.
