History favours the victor
Poets remember to lament the other side of the story
Knowledge is a playtime of labelling and unwrapping.
I have been asked to make something of myself
But what greater joy than effervescent freedom?
My body is grass
Head, in the clouds
Little men can't understand. I do not care any longer
My eye caves are breeding with Plato's wisdom
My veins thick with Sappho's yearning
And my love, only full, only pure
Liminal and limited but free like I ever hope to be.
I sometimes write incoherent phrases
Throwing darts at the screen
Because I have been asked to ask something of myself
All of this a grand attempt
To string in some goals.
To him who has known my sun side
And nothing more nor less of it
To her who forgot to reach my growing tree-like arms
I cannot conjure new things to say
My skin is no longer smooth and naive
My silence a measured resilient scream.
What can I make of myself, who knows?
But not someone else's dream.