The Fugue of Attention

The book sat open like a wound,  

Its pages shivering in slight drafts.  

He touched one paragraph, then another,  

Leaving fingerprints on ideas half-born.  

Trigonometry tangled with the fall of Troy,  

A quick leap from sine to Achilles’ death—  

The slippery trails of disparate subjects  

Wove knots he did not untangle.  

The clock ticked, though he barely blinked,  

Its rhythm mocking his skipping thoughts.  

A pencil dangled between his restless fingers,  

Scratching no answers, only spirals of haze.  

Each task unfolded like a new betrayal,  

A territory promising but never yielding.  

Meaning fled the way a bird ascends—  

A flash of wings, then emptied air.

When the hour arrived of judgment,  

The blank page mirrored his own absence.  

He stared into its accusing silence,  

Stricken by the weight of what he’d misplaced.