I must move
mountains and dig ditches, if
to sail seas, at captured
cries, in wretched
winds—days as a
peasant, a plebian, a soul
sainted, made
dirty, digging more ditches;
so many miles into
the horizon, many hells
come first,
dwindle, die, come back to life;
a craving
character, a vibrant violet, tried
in tyranny,
unlocked, evaluated, denied. if
time wasn’t
tainted, if tales weren’t told, a
man might climb
the outer cave. I must
move mountains,
establish human precepts,
live and laugh and
lose to win. much more to
learn, lunging at
mountains, a sad soldier—
made myth and melancholic.
