A lucid wine saturates your lips,
A kiss that stains my hollows, luminous.
Is it captivity I crave or imprisonment?
A moment devoid of everything save
My own feckless, habitual ravings.
There are no winners here,
There is only commitment,
A crippled attempt at being human
(Though that implies so little these days).
I would rather be foreign,
A puzzle chiseled through bone and sinew.
My choices are my own,
They come of temptation
They come like honey through
My interchangeable veins.
However, superior the pursuit
There are always those
Who would designate less.
I cannot find a way of escaping the confines
Of my own dumb sentience, the singular gift
Transfusing and exasperating my sorrows.
A man is nothing if not a scavenger of egos.