But is this the cosmopolitanism   of    art?
The words I am dribbling over      this liquefaction         of      injustice,
are they not
forced,       are they not carved,
from
the deepest corners
of my          bubbling        guilt, drowning in the lust of these quasi-stellar
objects,
gifting me the rendezvous of motivation
to stop
wasting the stardust
of this
golden hourglass
that never seems to stop                 pouring          its           waterfall mane         into
                                    the         suffix             of  its                  other half, tearing away a portion
of my soul with every drip it emits;—
a glass (of gold)
that sifts with
every second I blink and stops my heart from catapulting into the presence, forcing my arms to cater to
the future of this portion of sense datum paroxysm that spasms
with incandescent honeydew
and oozes with the paint of the ancient Greeks;
and is it not
that time waits for no one,
and that I have realized this too late?
For a year hath gone,
a year during
which I could have exploited my
arts to paint this exotic
artwork that
most would
never read; blooming with albino
lilies that have been
stained by the rufescence of what my eyes have read;—
so as this
flower blooms,
I must
lift my view
to this pathway,
and pay no heed to my surroundings that flock
with dandelions and lotuses
that tempt to guide
me to serenity,
but now I know
it
is
just
a
façade, a hoax,
so I must immerse myself
in this daunting play          of raging
Shakespeare guises, and lead
    myself           to the likes
of         Shakespeare's dutiful asylum,               for my inspiration
            is slowly             fleeting
and          I           do not
wish
   to
                  lose this grip like silk on my
                          calloused hands to the advantage
of others.