new arts are born from thievery, despite my forsaken property-
the call I heard, then rose to serve-
was stupid with tenacity.
Four stanzas worth of couplets, engulfed like flames, the page,
This digital bleakness, in which we dwell
'stained white with expressionist rage.
And yes, sometimes anguish comes, and then sometimes, sorrow stays-
But even now when I think of you-
trouble goes away.
How these days mimic the Night,
In their dizziness- at freedom's height
Tethering- do they placate or testify?
Mysticisms demistify.