You, sir, fabricate to confabulate.
Extrapolate from estimates realities,
Statistics, certainties -
Give weight to sensation to fill space
And don’t even have the grace to spill it
When you’ve been caught slipping
Away from knowing into the boundless open
This fact forming.
If you don’t check it,
I fear you’ll lose all sense of existence,
Get lost in the thickness of mythopoesis,
Unreachable by anyone speaking truths -
Ostracized as result from the group,
On being unproofed.
Yet, if time you let
For silence to fill itself
Sounds would find their place.
Still, even if not
There is comfort in knowing
You have saved your face.