And so the enigma is no longer …

For the secret was no

secret, excepting the blind I have

been: and you tried

to tell me and let me down

gently, even as I

refused, like the trash I became,

to listen more carefully 

to your sane.

And so genius I’m not,

and nothing like 

that I’ve got; but this man

you have before you,

like any man there was, or

ever has been or seen

or been seen, has

suffered and made

suffer a legion of similar 

warriors: those who

never give in to the vicissitude

of experience: the sins of

forgetting: the livings 

of remembrance …

… and only in the face and

glance of uncommon

injustice, so roughly dispensed

and distributed, do

I ever see any sense at all.

And so enigma no more exists

in my life: the truth

lies unequally between madness

and strife: and mediocrity too,

for that is what most I am

rue: no longer quite able

to reach beyond the stars and

tar with the black of

beautiful night at least one

thing worth leaving behind.




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