In this, half a heart will do.
Leave the rest unturned, abused, placed in categories uncertain.
The spleen provides nothing.
The bluest eye translates improperly.
The most difficult constellations have crept up all around you.
Pyxis. Corvus. Lupus.
Your piano balances upon a golden tuning fork
and your jade guitar hums where it stands.
Your lone black horse has frozen solid in mid-air,
caught in full-gallop across the hoar-frost pen.
Who that we admire lived alone?
What battle did Hannibal win while fixed in place?
Where will the piano and the horse fall if unlocked?
Juan Gris rendered beautifully but found fame only in maddening light,
in tense cubist forms and uncharted chicanery. His colors all wrong.
Yet, only those lines he connected in haste survive.
If your thoughts are troubling you, my dear,
stop thinking.
--Mitchell Hegman
(For CJK)
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