INK ALCHEMY

Juanita reached up, fingers digging into her scalp as she scratched in agitation. The fluorescent light flickered above. "I can't even get through this," she muttered, pushing the page away. "It’s boring, trite, and trying too hard. Why are we reading this?"

Jack adjusted his glasses and leaned closer. "Is it even a poem?" he murmured. "Or prose broken by force? It claims poetry—but stumbles like worn liturgy. I hear no music, only tired echoes."

Shu tilted his head, studying not the words but their arrangement. "Stop reading it as a poem. See it as graphic art." His hand traced invisible shapes. "This is structure first—language second. A sculpture of ink and silence."

Juanita laughed sharply. "Not secondary," she said. "Second-rate." Silence followed. Even the hum of the light seemed louder.