in the exile of an artist


everything by reckless abandonment

is forfeited in an instance,

swept away on an unbearable

rhythm of perishing moments,

mistaken movements,

and twisted gestures

expressed in hushed tones

peppered with retort.

disregarding wearily outstretched-fingers.

i settled for a discontented cold.

misfortune, occasionally, satisfaction,

returning unfaithful green grapes

to miserably senile stares.

but in my youthful outbursts i was a

cloudlike mountain to those incapable

of loving, of feeling, of experiencing,

wonders only found in

the profoundness

of being as uncomfortable as possible.

it is the madness in pursuit.

it is the exile of an artist.

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