I stand above the precipice, of two worlds – at day, I work, at night – I work. To give me to the world. Being Someone, if necessary. Being No one, whenever possible. I am an empty bottle, I fear, a tight throat, not a drop within – what can I give?
An old dog, same old tricks. Holding on, at times I take root. The spell grips tightly, I grow in the world. No other strategy, the generals are long dead. Everyone for themselves, somehow that worked. I grow victories in my little garden, longing to be ivy, to scale those walls, and conquer a home.
The madman did it. Water, flow into every crevice, conquer everything, that I am not. Art appreciated from a distance, to hold it all, close to my eyes, to see it for what it is, and to be gone from here.
Variety is honey. Rich beyond measure, a good year, a harvest – not suffered for, a great gift. More than I need – I can make due, but not today.
Invited to feast, sheltered by the high Lord.
No evil can come to me.