Everything I say is a lie.
Everything I do is true.

Words either guide us to or away from the truth.
They cannot be mistaken as the truth itself.

Ironically, even lies are true to themselves.

I construct,
in the dusty corners of the moon,
orchestrating art,
with knife
and spoon.

I conduct,
under the orange peel of land and lakes,
moving vibrations,
communications
of beats and breaks.

I compose,
on the whites of fallen trees.
Alphabet remixing,
rhyming,
Siamese.

I create,
on every canvas and coast.
Romancing with form,
an artist,
art
engrossed.