I don't have a purpose
To take out to dinner.
My attachment won't stick
To anyone's company.
I'm a living, breathing,
Unnamed mountain, a pile high.
My morals are undecided
By anybody but myself, despite
Conscience. Morals limit. I'm trying
But this snapshot
Of heart in isolation
Is beginning to make me
Make me. And if that happens,
We see what an artist
I'll be.