you
speak of balms, of roses,
of lady fortuna holding
your cards. you're a
wishful one, flute in hand,
an apple
in the other. i'm not
the anti-christ, however
low i may become. i
shine and grieve and
joke
and seize the eternal,
converse with abstract art.
paint, splash, a whirl
of fingers swimming
for the sun.
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