everything by reckless abandonment
is forfeited in an instance,
swept away on an unbearable
rhythm of perishing moments,
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
of being as uncomfortable as possible.
it is the madness in pursuit.
it is the exile of an artist.