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Why, with your garbs of the street, do you go Each night to meet the egg robbers of sincerity. You lay with them in their temporary nests and They sit on you without your protest. Your Brilliance will never hatch in such misery. Is it Due to a wish? A longing you see in the future That you are working towards? Have you lost Site of life’s rewards to the darkness of an Eclipse over your light. Or has the winds own Lips blown your candles flame and you have Given Up? Just a stick for others to use when They are dark and drunk. I dare say that it Appears you have not saved even so much as a Spark to be blazed in the darkness of the forest. And so it is I who must go. I have my ticket for The great ship that sits off shore. It carries war Bonds, electronics and people who are trying to Escape. The little Romeo that has grown into a Boy will be left behind. I hand him a red rose With its tip clenched like a large paint brush, I fix His lapel and bid him farewell. The man that is Individual was always week and I left poor Romeo there in the ribbed hallways of Desperation with you—the pining spinster. This Voyage leaves the pestilence and sinister on Shore of a distant town, on the mainland: Searching now—assaying how I am as a man to Be solely himself.

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