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
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
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
whispered at all.
And then, maybe, think of one fine day.
And then again, maybe, not.