Choo[sing, sid]es [and then again, maybe not]

Sid was a man who naturally loved everyone, and so no one

loved him back.

Because people who love everyone with the uncondition

of unnatural constancy, and that obstinacy born

of wings which have borne one

long ways and strays and signs and pines,

are ignored by a population sispicious of such

motivations.

 

 

And all that is left for a man like Sid is to sing like a bird:

unkempt and unkept and unwanted and

derided as molesting and annoying

and irritating the conformist pieces of

conservative mind which fail

an entire world’s

ambitions.

 

 

And so he does, and so he will,

every seck and every dreck of his rejected life:

no longer driven, no

longer striven, no longer flown, no

longer any

thing any

lover ever

whispered at all.

 

And then, maybe, think of one fine day.

 

 

And then again, maybe, not.

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