Just a little while longer now,
before this song is sung,
My pen is getting restless,
Another paper wait,

Life cut into slices,
to fit under the microscope,
segmented into shining slivers,
and deprived of its dimensions,

Somehow these tiny things,
so delicate, and so frivolous,
Balance microcosms,
on the fragile surface they create,

These innocent parchments,
lying inanimate, 
empty,
innocuous,
Turn on their sides,
and are still less imposing,
in mass,
in measurement,

Yet this imperceptible width of word,
Which can barely project a shadow,
Cuts with the keenness of cruelty,
and shocks the unwitting hand,

My heart striated across the page,
in translucent slides of honesty,
Opaqued by my own vanity,
Another paper-weight.