Days are exhausted. Pain has a window. Another widow
just passed away.
I need to fly, let death be afraid, let angst take her
course.
Dear
Ambition,
it
was hell in fires, damages in waters, made fresh in excellence. To do as it was
done might ruin a soul. Werewolf paws, coyote eyes, made to become reckless—if dying
was wrong, it would have a veto aside it; piccolo guts, acid arts, pensive
guarantees. Peace was inevitable, long as it lives, to admire the talents of an
adversary; a bad attitude, a moody disposition, more are falling for Love.
By
basin to bathe, by terror to treasure—making armor insignificant;
loving as it pinches, snatches, pulls, a man is more
his shames.
We
traipsed America, arguing over meaning, given philosophic nightmare.
I
adored her, made love with her, to sin, to cross life, wishing in metaphysic
principle. A wallet trickled with memories, a notebook filled with prose, a
scholar to have hated the author. To picket memories, to ticket discussions, a
fiat on happiness.
And to sit and muse, to wonder in turn, to ask if it
lives, to know it was never an ambition.
