If I may say so,
simple substitutions and imaginary numbers,
smudging brush strokes, surreal coloring,
phonemes, borrowed words, appellations,
but great old wine in different bottles;
tastes no better than it started;
age has done it no good,
not possible.
begin with a magnum opus,
where do you go after that?
recall the good and bask in the memory,
but it is done. what next? then again, why next?
there has never been a next, has there?
They say what goes around comes around.
Sure. Always respected it. Let everything go.
Just like that. Time after time. No fighting,
absolutely works. It comes around,
just so that you can send it around, again.
Let me liberate myself,
acknowledge the imperfection,
on yet another scale,
one just as less a whole as another.
Followed the book: I threw it out.
I wrote a book, I threw it out.
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