Within his twenties,
the artist rejects corruption
of all forms, only to lose himself or her.
If the money doesn’t get you,
the hearts who want yours
always do. And theirs have teeth.
The artist’s mouth is too busy,
filled with feathers, trying to catch flight
for any words they might emit—
from this blissful decade;
this swinging golden cage;
their first ten years spent hunting,
without fang, talon, or compass.
Oh dear artist, in your twenties,
you are merely a warbler
trying to hang on the same wire
as the old crows. They laugh at your attempt
to grow your shadow with vocal rhyme and merriment.
But still, they let you stay awhile,
believing you might still change your DNA
and sprout long wild blackness from your yellow bellied chirps.
They, too, were once lonesome fools—
until the year they joined in murder.
This is what you, too, must do.
So go out now and search for your own crowd of killer.