I frolic in the garden of gods and goddesses
with fairies and figments of my id.
I frolic on roads with lotus flowers and chalices of rum,
on pastoral roads with warm breezes, lack of scrutiny and amoral love.
I stand naked in moonlight mist with arms outstretched
defying smirking faces and complacent stares knowing full well
it is my own judgment that matters.
I have danced to a lyrical romanticism as my superego analyzed every step.
That sweet pantheism rebels the Victorian ethic
as it pushes the ideal into the lost dream where Arthur
wandered and Prufrock lingered with Selwyn’s yellow eyes,
wasting away in early decay.
Birds are fed by the earth, free of karma.
With clenched fists, I open fingers and fall asleep
back in the forest, after the gods have turned to stone,
and history has explained itself as fallen angels or ambitious egoists.
I reckon the desire to kiss the abyss
without falling into black waters, drunk on a temptation
or an ease that might be heaven or a nu age
or nothing new at all. And in the reckoning
comes the answer, the snap-snap of sacred eyes.