I so fear my unbecoming;
my non-emancipation,
into a destiny so believed
barely bound to be something,
or someone ever-known,
ever-promised by the time,
conceived by no yesterdays
but death of no tomorrows;
for where is life from here
where is love be lived
where my future has begun
without my dreams to keep;
for this is no far;
no far from disenchantments
or maybe unbecoming's
what's so do I please;
no, never may I search
my words for this world;
but fires on my pillars
or clouds I could perch
only lend me a moment,
I'll search nothing in gray
I'll write words so eternal
not these mouthfuls have prayed,
for all had me thinking
was blurred disfigurement
and wounds ever-bleeding
my poetry couldn't cure;
yet, I wish for this something
never hidden, only secrets
or foolishness for the wish
of salvation for my poets.
