If I were to elicit success's embodiment
And to feel it's enrapture, like sin
It's touch, coarse as salt to the fingertips?
Would it smell like a rose on the wind?

To risk, for a shared surreptitiousness
That very boldness independence empowers,
to instead announce allegiance to the flock of the age
When drinking after hours

Should it matter on the stage...

As a coy rebuttal to loneliness
In prioritizing what you need,
by finding "circuitous" after a dip in the thesaurus
for describing a sentence about trees
("When, obviously, it's actually describing something...far more potent...than any mere tree.")

...what fails to show up on the page?

Such is the world that Art wanders into
All big gestures 'round a clattering din
....but instead, "Success" has meant to me
A home in my arms
And she feels like a world
resting beneath my chin
A thought that cancels out Art's disappointments
...And her breath is a rose on the wind.