Immortality?
Serenity? Telepathy? Strength?
To
be drunk from no ale? To act stripped of shame? To love and to leave, to create
without dying?
To
fly like no Icarus? To control? To be brave? To be mystery and rhyme and not
fade like the such?
And
the price, are you willing? And the loathing to bear? And the crazed shriek of
terror when your patterns dismantle?
And
the dead oaks that girdle your garden with solemn (in what seems like) faces to
mock your confusions?
Will
you ever know what you signed for when they come a-knocking, collecting
the demons in you?
Will
you ever stop? Will you ever reside in this land where all poems eventually bleed?
Do
you even care for it? Will you hold onto it, when all of your bones will
harmonically scream?
(Can
you walk in the sun without burning out?)