Conclusion

 I fled one twilight, frail and incomplete,

across the black-red field of my defeat,

hoping in vain upon some fickle god—

unethical the beam on which I trod.

I tiptoe without shelter, loosely spun,

toward the monstrous cry my streets have won:

a wingless society, stripped of grace,

fugitive at the edge of my hair’s space—

a smile for the dead, entirely in place.

I must become more bloody, drenched in strife,

mad butcher carving “good” and “wrong” from life,

fatal, yet fashioned in transcendent form,

too-flexible dancer at the cliff’s sheer storm;

a worshipper of mediocrity’s lie,

uninvited, in seismic waves I fly—

proudly vulgar, I amplify

within the silken conduit of the human cry,

dying with every taming of the beast’s sharp sigh.