Adrian Borda

A misplaced word or deed

Could render your heart askance

And I would be the lesser for it.

Some believe in finality

But with age comes the routine

Of a diminished certainty

I know now why the sky

Prefers grey in adornment


I depend on the wind

To gather my illusions

And on my will to disperse them

A will that is neither

Brave nor merciful

A will that is erratic at best

I could be is all

That I have ever been

And I imagine you too

Are not as decreed on paper


Such dreams as these

Are too cruel to gift

In conversation

So it is that I keep

My wings folded beneath

A cloak of indifference


Pity me neither this oversight

Nor any concession I might make

In a moment too poignant to bare.

I have not lived in such a way

As to become known or wealthy

What I want is surely too

Abstract to elucidate.


Just as love is not assumed

Congenital in a blade of grass

No matter how sweet or vibrant

(We do not perceive in it a spirit

Beyond the mediocre triumph

Of ritualistic sustainment)

In this very way I too may be

Underestimated for my failure

To conform to assumed variables


If I indulge, I would no doubt

Spend entire days justifying

My queer existential existence

If you had my life to govern

You would ruin it

Like a linen starched until

It serves only as the parchment

Of a more prolific sentient


I do not not propose to know

Everything and indeed I claim

Very little in regards to you

Still I know better myself

My flaws effect me directly

As do my fears and virtues

And I assure you that

Their language is one only I

Can hear no matter how often

Our tongues or talons meet


Another BBQ I know what your thinking that girl has issues. I just typed up my journal scribbles from today