Fictive music, subjective treasures
How long did I pursue the rapture?
I gave my life to divinier love —
Pretty on the inside, clearest blooms.
I watched dozens of Summers fade outright —
I didn’t need to know the native quality of youth
I was on a different frequency —
Lost in the shelves of my own process.
Silver sprinkles of poetry, the craft of my craft
Heart of my heart, only an artist could understand
The sacrifice of living inside, like a Seer
A meditation upon the language and purity.
For how many decades did I somehow live like that?
A singular motion to some obscure source,
Misunderstood and eccentric, rarely in bloom —
Constantly curious about fringes of mortality.