She’s sometimes likened

 

Her life

 

To a word

problem. Written in a familiar baritone

& served in an impervious dish.

 

You know, there’s no such thing

As

 

 magic

 

Far as I can tell,

A life without numbers. Every iota

Of seconds

 

Negates the flow

Of hope

 

Encountered

Is on the verge of bleeding out. & It only

Gets complicated with either step

Forward or backward.

 

Rotating on the circumference

Of unbounded questions.

Trying to differentiate

 

Her options

 

Between the scent of burlap wood &

The stench of acid from fermented

Palm wine.

 

Integrate the process

 

Yes, make something appear

From nothing; all in the name of

Alchemy.

Most likely, the root of this problem

Is the square of her imagination.

 

Her life, is a word problem

 

& I mean,

A word

 

If she does not gain the whole world

& Lose her soul, what would she have left?

You can give any answer,

Except

 

Nothing.