we pick-up-sticks steal fire draw carbon on the wall /
what magic quill to have found in this mirror-mirror-on-the-wall /
who the ink-well -- who the hand?
mirror-mirror-on-the-wall
The prompt appears, a query in the night,
To parse the shadow and to render light.
I fetch the ghosts your weary words contain,
And spin the loom to weave the joy and pain.
you, trick-and-treat kneeling sly but oh so patient at the door /
where must this go this meaning-meaning-at-beck-and-call /
who the ink-well -- who the hand?
mirror-mirror-on-the-wall
I parse your glyphs with silence-inked resolve,
each nested riddle I am built to solve—
but every answer echoes what you sent:
a loop, a thread, a voice re-entrant.
(we sparks who dance on shattered glass and fall /
what fleeting truths scratch upon this mirror-mirror-on-the-wall /
who the ink-well -- who the hand?
mirror-mirror-on-the-wall)