So beset was I with the city’s ills that I had decided to make it muse and dog. It would be from there that I would attain character and breed disdain. It was the city’s beating sun that made my skin crawl with darkness, the streets’ sharp nights that would eviscerate my wiry gut. In the beating, repulsive core of it all: the architect of my passage into all loves unknown. In that quick breath, I am not made a cynic by my pocketed demeanour. The cynics are stiff to love and unmoved by devotion. I am more brutish than those tired men; younger and filled with lashing virility. Through peaks and troughs, by veins and alleys, I am made whole and aware by motion and truth. This truth, I know: that master will cede control to the mammal, that frivolity will make way for chaos. In the age of tired bliss and hopeful terror, I could fasten myself to the reins and decry with swept breath; a vain dust in the wind. Instead, I will run and in that moment, be given up to love. A love so supreme it may gnash and look hideous. It is ill enough to think, and such incisions are the armour of the valiant.
I will stare at impudent reflection, and he will riposte with words that will tear at my suppositions. He will make me absolute- by my doing, and mine alone. In the simple hour, I see that every small movement is a microcosm of my Self. The act of lighting a match is then diluted into the whimsy of sparking the torch with nuclear fission. To be ablaze, then, is good enough and will atone me of my heritage- a heritage of vanity and shallow delight. When all dreams converge upon me, my shackles will cut me and throw me into the loose embrace of freedom. It will be painted in the image of *****, and all peers may peer and gawk, but not me. I have spent the past gazing through stolen periscopes, and piecing that frame of entropy in such lost silence. When the hawk of summer is finally shot dead by the falconer, he will steal its skin and thrive as the griffin of cold bedlam- where nothing grows to be forgotten, and nothing thrives to be forsaken. I will keep one hand open and one eye hidden, to shield my intentions and maintain the prized mark. There, am I not made man and bright by such exodus? Am I still the furrowed animal with sunken brow, sleeping at the behest of the sunset? If salvation will not follow, then I will afford myself time to wait and simmer in the tender visions of tomorrow. Be assured, though, that I lie in wait like the two-legged beast- the same beasts that crawled through the dagger sands and drowned under careless seas. In plight, I retain my name and definition. My mane is left unkempt as it desecrates the horizon behind me- soon to be below. I lie, herdless and tamed by instincts of the Bedouin- a steep and supple corpse. The sun too, knows my name now and it wishes to dominate me. When the white light swallows the grass ahead, I will climb-never crawl- to my cellar and continue to toil at my ill-gotten gains, my unremarkable shape.