In between this breath and the next,
I will find a 1000 burning sons
In the rage of a solivagant man
Who forgets he is an ever-blooming bud, still growing.
Amidst peace and pain
He flirts with his fathers’ cadaver, patrizate and unaware there is still time for the opsimath.
Within every moment of denial
— bottled artefacts in some abandoned museum of age—
he takes inventory, by folding his own skin into wrinkles and …