You thirst me like water;
A revolution and their martyr.
You love me with the pride
of a traitor’s hanging medal,
trickling my essence
that flowed through your gutters.
I tried to disappoint you,
but my spirit did not know
how to abandon beauty
without returning when it snows.
I will take back my home—
for a burial or a chore.
But I have many mountains to cross
and many memories left to mourn.
And you with tall shoulders,
your future full and certain—
you only beckon me
because you seek my disaster.
And I with my regrets—
for leaving you ever after,
I still dream of a farmhouse
with an easel by the garden.
I still seek my redemption
by your right of passage—
to hang me on your gallery walls
and declare my work a progress.
It is sad we have to demonstrate
the lengths we are willing to go
before anyone ever really stops;
before anyone ever really grows.
And so I declare this poem a tragedy,
born to be poor,
lived to be free,
divorced at the first collision—
with famous glances between.