As blue as it is forgotten

This is a poem in which I, the poet, happy as I am, will demonstrate an amazing ability to underjudge you, the reader, oh humblest of creatures, and your ability to grasp, handle, and hold some of life's greater treasures. You will continue to be wondersmitten as I dip, dodge, and duck around what you once thought of as your language, but is now clearly my own. I will bend the world around you, and force it to dance unthinkable dances. I will casually pick my teeth with sweet silvery images and cast them aside as pitiable objects to the shadowy floor. I will swiftly climb through thick... wait. Stop.

The rest should be spoken in hushed wispy tones. Whisper to the page, oh reader, whisper now. And if someone should happen to enter the room, just continue whispering, leaning ever closer to the page as if in a trance. Then, when the poem is complete, turn you attention to the person, gaze at their true self through the windows of their eyes, and say: "the poem is over, and all that is left are words on a page". Then you must leave, knowingly, never to return.