Old Authors Notes

I don’t know how prepared I’ll be when the test begins…
Facing a fight never let me down, but I am all alone this time
and whatever it is that I know let him find you
before voices and vibrations could take you.
Now I know I’ll go poor finding beats of where you will be
before my attention to old Authors notes that hypnotize the minutes awake
crashes quick raps and short stacks of neatness and jumbled words.
Here’s what’s left: not enough.
I lose myself in feeling, I miss you, I need you.
By now no one under the moon
knows the desert well enough to see your mirage.
So somber, what we won’t dare do or where we won’t dare go,
while acoustic guitars serenade my search
I borrow breadcrumbs to leave false trails
but they eat my hints before he follows
and monsters meet in the darkness around campfires
eating my bread and plotting stories that dead men have written
and win prizes for plagiarism and corrupt ideas of superiority.
I see elaborate columns and papyrus aging yellow
and before I can stop them from devouring my own ideas
I become a part of the imagination they have stolen.
Metallic instruments cloud my ears with strange music
and deep synthesizers mouth intangible words to my eyes,
but I hear sounds of revolution and an overthrow of the monsters
when music douses fires and chases the thieves away
before picking crumbs from the beards of the real Authors.