Let´s figure words is but a space, content
to formulate, linger on and contemplate;
by itself deceived to give consent,
to a stance, that, within a blink, inflates.

A monologue of sorts, set to be
upon a quite precise and timely scale,
rearranged, into a higher key;
a dialogue to be, released on bail.

What role is mine in this tumultuous play?
My manuscript, a mess of faded ink.
Where is my repartee, my piece of clay?
A proofread sketch for you to read, in print.

I make a coup d´etat within myself,
out-source me, to my inner well of wealth.