I almost had a name,

That gave birth to a fortune

A talent sculpting ambition into Nobel craft,

Cultivating a legend toasted in our myths

Surely stolen, molten multiplying earnest questions

Into contours carved along the pockmarked hills

Leveled at suspense a shiver tucked opposing close-held duality;

A broadsword stroke, a pulverizing char

Striking at a flimsy turnkey tempo.

Resolution was not more than burden tightened chiffon,

Stifling rotation that in front of each powdered ensemble on the backlit stage

Was lust.

Embellishing under the mechanisms of daily marching

Wrenching in jest at the coward’s parody of routine.

That as my hope in purpose fell through,

I had a reservoir of nightmares kept utterly pristine.