Fugitive

A fugitive in a land of ciphers

I am that gift wholly unasked for

And so confounding that only a closet

Can address its specific concerns.

 

To what end do I aspire?

When there are so many

And I am only one person.

In what passage must

I sweep my inestimable girth?

By what sorcery do I

Once so voluptuous

Become flat and hard

Like the sides of an old shoe box.

 

Grey is diminutive

And my heart grows flaccid

For its relentless occupation.

Can a man truly prefer sadness?

Or am I simply incapable

Of the alternative?

 

Tears cannot be purged

Unless they fall but for how long

Will I leak and will there come

A time when all that discarded salt

Serves to keep the demons

From entering in the first place?

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