The Proof Poem by Thomas Hooker

The windows are blue and the walls alabaster white,
the torn paper falls silently like snow, littering the ground,
captivity fails to associate words with the manifest.

Tender are the pieces of paper, torn numbers on the floor,
individual letters held for ransom, outside the wastebasket,
rescued by lyrical secrets, abstract in their design.

Cascading paper hammers, push pencil to prose,
lost in a dream, codes torn out of a ledger, changed
by fire and ice, as they exit through fingertips.

The theory revolves outside the universe, a collection
of cyclical waves that influence the rotation of harmonics,
bounded endlessly by strings of parallel doubles.