Nothing to win.
Nothing left to lose.
It’s time for that vice of yours break.
Body always bruised,
how ever will the spirit soar?
Back where I left off
before the pursuit,
a half-bloomed flower, merely on my way
purely becoming myself.
And in that season before incubation,
clamped, tightly furled
not quite pulling free from hooded petals,
exactly where I needed to be.
What if you were a man just for that moment?
You would have left me as I was.
A micro season of my sweetest hours
firmly, licentiously you pried through
ahh, that hubris
all but a façade entangled into a ball of shame shifting into my lane
a ploy for your celebratory self-delusion
all tricks grow old,
yours too have come to grow hoary.
With a heart like mine,
this great work is just beginning.
Mille grazie, for my libertà
as scurrilous as you could be
all the more commemorative it turned out to be.
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