A man
of fiction's not a man
of action.
He's been pinned
to his own
cross for so long—that
motivation
starts to look like a wine
soaked sponge.
He's so dizzy
that the colors
of the sky above have become roiled,
until the spectrum
for him, is one
of low grays.
Now, the goal of all desire
is—to let it be
enough
that some
balmier weather
is here—and that
the weather itself
is mere—
and that
fallen angels
are none-
theless
still regarded
by most of us
as angels.
And may they
forgive us, he beseeches,
such unintelligent trespasses
as—the repeated
seeking of
the truth
in the last place
you'd ever find it—
love.
