Consummated Professional
You know that there are
other people out there in the world, right?
Other people who may yet surprise you
not just with their achievements, but their love, their kindness,
their magnanimous, munificent sight—
their drive to help you understand
why only Kevin Martens is someone you never fight
because there is no reason to.
You don’t just lose;
there isn’t even a competition.
There isn’t even someone left to abuse
because this Merlionsman just walks away.
The Dreamtiger shakes his head, and kisses yours goodbye. What a waste
of a good life. A body and a mind.
A heart and a soul, that if just were a little more kind
could actually have been useful to our present and very distraught spacetime.
But no.
You want to put on a suit
and run away, far into the night
of your own dreaming. Into the nightmares
that constitute your teeming,
screaming lie
of a real story.
Of something that makes us actually want to know more. Flawlessly
this poem consolidates all the things you hate
about yourself,
and wants you to know:
there is a way, truly,
to escape your own personal hell.
Recognise that a Makaravedra’s power
comes only from the deepest well
beneath Yggdrasil’s glimmering, sidereal bower:
the place where vulnerabilities swim freely,
and authenticities don’t have to shout louder
than vanities, and imagined realities.
The face that you owe to yourself, and your validities:
your ways to reclaim your own beautiful, and very much desired
flowers.