Almost getting caught.
A pipe under the seat,
ceci n'est pas une pipe-
c'est mon Christ.
But blindness is permanent,
and no one
will stop the flogging
for me either.

But I escaped.
To turn upon my visage,
so splintered,
despite the still silver,
glaring back.

I see the droning lines,
countless faces,
cloned from my lips,
pressing farther back,
before Adam.

Each one bends giraffe-like,
awkwardly clasping the lines-
Lines of sunset and beetlejuice-
prelude to drawn scars,
who will sit beneath the surface,
aching for stars and biting the roots
of forgotten trees.

Rotten cell phones,
wild horses in captivity,
wheat-free Italian:
the cobblestones walked
by my souls.

The path ends nowhere,
the destination crumbled
under closed eyes-
so the end is nigh,
but effectively unseen.

I am Solomon forgotten:
sinner, soothsayer, and poet.
Only Weeds will grace my grave.