The Artist

he hoarded towers,
the trembling mountains,
that choked the valleys
of his floor.
in the fires, suffocating,
velvet theater seats are breaking,
and everything that seemed
doesn’t seem so anymore.
maybe it’s the fire’s light-
the need to be remembered
or remember what we were,
in lists and fists and movie scripts,
in everything we’ve got or shot-
or maybe it’s the human plea,
the “let me be” or “set me free”
we all still live accordingly.





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