Alchemisland

Last pass over yon treacherous terrestrial lands 

Finest acting comes longer after the desire to act at all

I can’t remember the last time I asked myself whether I was passing

Now I simply am, such suffices

Tme passes, fire which transforms to ashes

The sashes, our life in bedraggled fairy knot strands

Animated to unlife by the wind

The breath within, the breath without

Breast endowed with holy allowances

Often, I would ask myself what best to say

Not what best to convey my thoughts

Lest I invade my own privacy

Fearing I might inveigle myself and be bade

Attend events I hated from social obligation

No, I would ask myself what best to say

To make this person have a positive takeaway after our conversation

Despite my utmost desire to avoid the friendship equation

At distance, at bay

I try pitifully to inflame their passions

That my impression would be long lasting

And broadly pertain to happiness, that they would raise a glass to me

I met him once and he was a good lad

Nod to me if they glanced me by chance

As I was paying for a glass of lager

How much acting goes on at that age

If only I could reach back, clatter myself, flatten that image self-flattering

What matters let it be clearly marked out like well-travelled trails on flapping tourist maps

Slapped by zephyrs in back alleys, their reader’s facial features inclined in scrutiny

Clearly, this community of overencumbered, pane-eyed golems was neither Anne Frank’s house

Nor the slave trade galley whose hold housed a museum and gallery.