The Grand Illusion
I chased Freedom through the old house,
bruised, breathless,
skittering down hallways,
far sunlit mornings.
Cornered him in empty rooms,
demanding explanations.
He gave me everything, held back nothing,
yet still I stalked him,
impatient and puzzled,
a werewolf of words.
I seduced Freedom one night with cheap red.
Awoke beside him sick and scared.
He gave me everything, held back nothing,
yet still my bulk filled the room:
a mountain of wasted breath.
Too large to erode,
too thin to explode.
I strangled Freedom one day with my bare hands,
carried his thin white body around for years.
A man of means, burdened with sadness
and strange abilities.
As time and tears passed,
I yearned for his immaculate lonliness,
but found only
minor details,
mechanical friendships,
pieces of eight,
butts in the ashtray
seconds too late.
He gave me everything, held back nothing.
But nothing is all I need.
