He was held back—
by some rhythmic reason
that would not let him play
with the wild manifesto of desire.
He was too young—
a precocious gypsy
who lost his scroll of truth
and the creed he wrote at low tide.
His eyes were sharp,
his spirit defiant.
Still, he kept asking:
Why can’t he stop feeling her?
Why does their connection still burn
like insomnia in his chest,
simply because the evening wind never sleeps?
The years passed.
He became only a silhouette,
leaving his fire-lit shadow behind, aching.
And he begged the universe—
just one eternity less—
to understand her movements,
to hear the cries she never spoke aloud.
She had stolen the wind from his soul,
without ever lifting
the sorrowed skirt of her spirit.
Foolish, useless gypsy.
The wind—mute and merciless—
caught him from behind,
and silenced him.
So he ran,
fueled by fear,
knowing he could no longer lie.
He burned his scroll,
thinking the ashes might drive away
the howling winds—
might erase his brief affair with truth,
might bury the boy
who always wanted to be strange.
He became a gypsy of madness—
an alchemist chasing black magic,
only to find Thor, hungover,
laughing at him.
The sky spun in circles,
defying time itself.
And time—his only true friend—
hated him enough
to remember the night
that gave him life
without asking for anything in return.
And if he could live again...
he would still be this dark gypsy—
son of the moon,
nephew of recklessness,
godchild of spring’s first breath,
cousin to the devil himself.
For even at his first ritual,
he had tried to unlock a divine poem—
not to be saved,
but to release the frenzy,
to call forth his gypsy lover,
to embrace the beautiful misery
of being what he was:
A romantic in ruin.
A cursed soul.
A street actor—
damned by drama,
redeemed only
by a love he could never tame.
constant dreamed and explored ("Perfidia Ritual" 05/25/2006)
