The Reductionist

You hand over your words
to the editor with blades for eyes,
each tooth a comma, each breath spliced.
Words hacked like severed limbs,
their meanings left bleeding into the margins.

Paragraphs crumble into ellipses,
stuttering on the edge of coherence,
half-thoughts quartered into silence,
a hymn in the key of brevity.

A woodwind orchestra, hushed,
its voice pared down
to a long fermata.

The sword rests—
less is more.

More becomes ~~none~~.