It’s not a rift that a button can conquer
It’s not a matter of fashion or posture
My body is a starched linen
My face a wide-brimmed hat
My hands, two monkeys stirring
This island is eroding
Tame next to the sea’s wiles.
The boulder no longer commands
My exits nor presumes to waylay guests
I am not the same surplus
The same angel, the same grail
Content to equip my enemy
With both ammunition and gauze.
When I die please do not consider me
A victim, know that, I went fighting,
Know that, the cave grimaced in sunlight
And that I took those yellow tendrils
Into myself as one takes a mirror
Willing, if inadequately equipped,
To embrace a truth superseding ego.
I can no longer justify my trips to purgatory
The poverty that follows each extraction
Some days I leave my face unmade.
And set out to conquer the extraordinary
I was given but one heart
And none but she can pronounce my name.