Last on her list. First excluded. I’m headed to a
pantheon. I took time to tell a
story.
Looking at
you in hallucination, bundled in essence, to kneel in exhalation.
It locates
itself. It mourns. It isn’t black & white.
Art of a
falcon. Terror of a lion. Mystic lips.
Beige
skies, colorful existence, sheer absurdity.
To have met you is to have lived.
To carry it with arrogance, to pride self with humility, to become
paradox, portrait, patience.
To muse
upon what can never become, to love and torture self. In decorating
infatuation, I discovered pieces at seas.
The tale
unsold, unsellable, no one is buying it.
And still, the tale is sung.
Pure consciousness:
to reach her and feel dislodged—from ache, art, the blues.
Last on her
list. First to immortalize her.
