Siren song—
someone hopes it works, but nope.
You've picked the wrong Wong;
the one who looks at towers like this
and makes up his own mind
about how he is going to walk along
the path to victory.
The sounds of temerity,
and the feet that carry the chromatic need
homeward, to where it needs to be:
between today, tomorrow
and all manner of possibility
that illuminates what otherwise might have been disowned
by lesser mortals
who dream of inheriting some imagined, divined throne.
I walk down the path that I have decided to make my own
even though everyone else does not know where to look, who should show
Death out. They did not necessarily overstay their welcome,
but someone is unhappy that They were allowed
to carve up the landscape like this.
I wish you knew where the painter decided eh fuck this
and did something else with Their life instead
that didn't involve any kind of waiting,
or weighing,
or dismissing one's sense of what is left over
and dead.
Two quadrillion roads diverged.
I took the piano, and the music, and the whirlwind instead.
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