I speak of one whose triumph
is like his own despair
“a prison we all carry”;
his spirit eager for love
which is his only recognition.
His dreams are his own
as are the phrases of a one-night stand
or what might have been
his perfect innocence
or the clouds withholding
the light that would prevent
flowers from growing.
He’s like a sunset of pure sensibility.
His “good looks” are an obstacle.