Sometimes, in the getaway of how
You've become a hero...

I am sickened by this crowd—
those who lost their Christmas...

It was a song—
that reminded me...

If I have come in dress thou hast garmented for...
I would have found thy garment, not thee...

I am the poet of the true reality—
not the shared dream, communal illusion...

Such a strange affair,
between here and there...

For all time,
the rain was pouring—yet I stayed dry...

The word
Like a genre or species...

Just in your eyes
is the safe haven...

Each god stands as the antipode to its servants—
a reflection inverted...

You stereotype
when you fixate only on traits...

To each individual,
every index, other than their own...