With derelict ears
I ignored
the prose in the wind
I will never again.
It demanded
"How dare the languid enter
my august presence"
and since then I've
been ruined
I feel the weight of my
indecision; I collapse,
I collapse,
I collapse into routine
I follow along with
the wrong melody
I am a ghost in living clothes.
I carve my initials into
Anxiousness,
that towering monolith
and I think back
to what the wind said:
My august, languid presence?
My anxious, living pretense?
I forget
Until in a wave of
surety, I realize what it meant:
I am my own opposition.
Each of my contentious life revisions.