Be the sentencer, you small ghost, come out and be the limiter.
You’re the soul, yes?
Tell me what comes, and in what cold dale I may brutalize,
or in which narrow court I may be nice enough.
Do you exist? I’m asking you.
Sentence me as I have, in lines, sentenced else.
You might exist, ghost: I have heard your first words.
(Granted, I have dimmed the remainder to night,
and as a cretin with far sight, or else tonight blind,
I will still deny you)
I know the day has marketed us and admits it does not know how,
so ghost, mine, come out and make words. Market.
Make my sentence curt and cold.
There we are. Concision. Good.
The nausea settles. Hallelujah.
I have limits and sentences,
and a righteous, cocksure faculty,
but while the face dims,
while the remainders spin into servitude,
and as the days devour the Sun,
and as the soul begins to snow.
The unique artist is in direct contact with her madness
and has accomplished that rare, uncharted thing
of domesticating it.
It runs away with her,
but she comes back with it.
Out again and home again.
The leash is a strange and precious commodity,
a thick bleed. She constantly recaptures this madness
from its escape, or else they merely go for walks.
Others sometimes uncover these maneuvers or walks
from a distance. They squint and see
the artist or the madness but seldom both,
only that something would seem to be out there.
Perhaps she is lost?
Or else some minds arrive before they embark.