and the little white girls walk in
with their school sweats on,
smilin' all precious innocent like
with hair that never goes awry.

and the dictionary is tellin’ me
words ive been using for years
never really existed, and then
i look’d up existential crisis.

and the cold wind turns tan’d
skin pale as blood recedes to
more important portions of a
body preferenc’d warmer times.

and the words i have to say
i want to erase without a second
notion, but i cannot for fear of
loss of thoughts not yet conceived.

and the knowledge of having been a
mystic misplaced, once recess’d
to a span of  sleeping lives
allow’d to be found incarnate.

“ . . and even if, crazed, he ends up
by losing the understanding of his visions,
at least he has seen them!”
content’d the loss of action to thought.