'Tis I, Closest to the sun

I, the man, the mad and the lover.

Still use the mind, so brisk and violent, to fall for they whom I ask the world, whom I trust the chest, and fill the liver.

I cannot fall, for I am against gravity, I decay in long walks to the city, where the pubs, and the pavement collide, face to face. I wink to the destiny, I the boy, who wanders alone, at night, with unshootable words, and mild death threats.

Heart that echoes, alone, unwanted. I dream and dream of becoming, strong as the tide that rocks the shore, and brings the salt to women’s backs.

Breast that feeds the young, the unrelated palm that feels the sand, and the feet that warms up in the sun.

I want possible outcomes to reduce my life expectancy, like living in the city, or welcoming a bicycle, for there’s truth only in death.

Living steady, abrupt renaissance in midst of the crowd, lies a crazed to daze, a spot of light, one minute to the sunset. I’ll bring home the roost to roast. Men, primitive, quiet, angry, mad.

I, amongst them the specters, invisible to the living and scattered to the dead. Profit unseen, unfelt, surreal, in my reality coming to an end. Proved to be the thing, the thing that’s in everyone’s mind, unsettling, ancient, the thought that awaits the landing to the moon, forever in a sky depressed of stars, but cloudy, and wanting to appear.

I the man, who sees you in totality, not through you but beyond, at your cold eyes and your sharp speech. I declare it mine, I say, you’re the moon, only behind the clouds, only saddened by loneliness. As you set I stand watching glaring at the horizon, longing for your return.