Why?

A reason to write is a reason to steal

Of dues to attention

Before another's feel

We write because we tire

Of jagged paths

Before another's satire

There is no truth to one's reason

Of scattered seeds

Before white, a prism, a rainbow

What is light to our eyes?

If not for contact, there is nothing

All is illusion

A misguiding beacon

A liar's justification

Something like a whim