I can only plagiarise the prophets
I see in the dark.
Dig up their bones and replace them
With my own.
Gaining no comfort in my eternal search
For what masquerades as cheap clichés.
I find: complete
and choose the same deck of spades,
dragging my fingers through the tar
and decorate caves with Queens.
Parchment curls at my edges,
in the virginal white sheets that mask it’s sins.
My quill is loaded.