Goodmorning, Glory


The Libertine 

What happens when the legend believes, he is really the illegitimate son of success, or the marking of gifted. What does one do with his old self, does he lock him in the room for, the enjoyment of those who loved the humble martyr. If you are understanding, all of these syllables, raise your hand in unison with me. Raise your hand, bow your head in the sand of masters before you, the ones who asked for the origins of change to be delivered to their hands, to their being, and now they stand as modernists, the complete, the infinite. I can leash, my most desirable aspirations to a rope of reclusiveness, but what about when everyone wants in, when I can love but only one long haired angel, only one heart that neither shared the umbilical cord or spoon with me. Look at me, look at these tracks, look at the tracks that I have made of tears, left behind by accidents, mistakes and loose nerves. Loose verbs and uncontrollable grasps. The angels who make me smile each day of my progress, tell me that the echoes of those scorned and forgotten will weave fabric of animosity gilded with love, enough to clothe me in admiration. I whisper back: “save them, because, I will always love them”