SLENDER IS THE NIGHT
My categories are all enthralled
of nothing; mostly without a shape
and form too. I wander and I drift.
An aimless beacon : still a beacon,
but no great purpose. The violet
lens of envy, geed of want, pomposity,
any of those things are unseen by me
along the way : Instead I look at the
mountains and hills, or the buildings
and streets. Depending on where that
roam has roamed me. I can carry my
Baudelaire or Verlaine or Rimbaud;
or I can speak from the heart about
things that I know - filling halls and
holding audiences is nothing to me.
Why am I bound though for this very
nothing I face? I never understand.
Prophets without honor, or seers
without eyes. Tiresias, remember,
was as blind as a bat.
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