o’ writer how does it feel to hear your words from lips foreign to yours, for a tongue new to the taste of you— at your parapel eerie coos— words loud and clear wafted through sealed windows, with your ear to the wall— so do you hear at all ? o’ writer in there, in the parasol. how does it feel to beseige in eyes your effigy, to be trifle in their mouths and minds, to be galloped and vomited undigested. no comma entrusted, no dashes enough gentry— no solidus slitting the syntax like you pleaded with pages in light of a scented candle. so do you hear the omitted gasps, the exaggerated sighs— o’ writer— How does it feel? To hear your words from a butcher of language foreign to your accented anguish, with the art of subjugating words to be handy. are you finally hearing me, o’ writer? are you fleeing your voice, taking theirs in? at the broken window sill, by the parasol— o’ writer— do you hear at all?