a book, in fact,
in which everything
is written.
But the catch is
you
don't get
to read it
while you are
still living.
For now, it's only
the muteness
of touch;
the silence
of voices calling
and calling;
and the doubt
that rises,
blindly,
to follow
and convince you that
you're dreaming.
For now,
only this much
of the text
will be given;
only this much is
innocuous (but
still intelligible) enough
to be understood—
to be underlined
and annotated
by any inmate
in this prison—
as true
beyond reason,
beyond purpose,
beyond question.
