Elegy For a Dying Artist


My concern has fled to local
transpirings. And with it my place,
As a spec under the moon.
Political, familial, communal, concern.
What is best is ahead, clear and predictable:

Filtered premonition: a curse. Retake
the mind that pitied princes. But,
I become my patron's self.
And soon in fear I'll say:

At least a self it is...
Yet hope comes at last,
In a thought I did not lose.
Apparently: the farse is fiscal,
anD WE cAn cHaNGe GramMeR,

For whatever reason,
I could do such a thing
And more, at least, well,
behind my skull.

The strange man, now, says goodbye.
Hoping twice to have found
His love. And you will agree,
If at 68, you find you're 18:
Your love rests effortless in your head.

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