A Muslim hermit or monk.
- Also: a shrine marking the burial place of said Muslim hermit or monk.

How curious, to have your occupation and burial place share the same name. It provokes a sense of steadfast devotion to oneself and the One they serve. The painter’s grave, The Painter. You are your death, you are everything you touch. That is an idea to make amends with as the world loses its grip on the person; affirmation through reconciliation. Made by all that precedes you, all that succeeds you. There is no dread to be found on this note, realize that. your name will commemorate your life; your death will be given breath. A serendipitous thing. I would like to be a marabout to music, the world, all that can see me. To offer myself so that I may remember myself, and that they may be touched and inspired by me.

This man is a whirlwind, unwilling to be bent or crafted, instead shifting all by his vicious lonesome.

Carnal love
Take me now!
I am fit for duty
And purpose most high
To be made use of
In my virile hour
My glorious light
For I, useless otherwise
A trembling husk
Of unkempt desire

When staring at my skin
From your soft distance
Be sure to ask yourself this:
How much life do we have left between us?

Thin-blooded. Such is the nature of the dreams that offer you a sliver of paradise, only to be whisked aweigh at the slightest breeze of stale consciousness.

No need to say it when it has been expressed lucidly in thought and meditation. Now, take from that well of origin and turn it into something greater than parlance; allow it to earn its own breath and purpose.

Saffron, the pretender
Come to me in debauchery
Let me know not of this
But instead, vain camaraderie
Swiftly down the road
Forgive that violent tenderness
Of brass things
And parsimonious goodness
What teeth, critical states
Yellow signs coalesce
In this blood-drenched hour
I have lost my mind
And the light is dimmer
For this pious sinner
Listen to that gust
Two hundred and one stallions
Criticize my crystal eyes
I, the foreigner
A mistaken warrior
Dandelion child
Riding a ceaseless fountain
Holding a vase so ragged
And a sun so mild