Reluctance is My Story

every work of art tells a story
and I'm reluctant to tell mine

my art is reluctant
sticking the page
with contradictory cement
loneliness and liveliness
bitter ecstasy
flowing pugnacity

the marginal illusions twinkling
on the horizons' edge
casting shadows to sleep on
bending breaks in the clouds

I am a relic of being ahead of my time:

a centurion

armed for the next battle

against spiritual spectres

crashing the city gates

these battles are won
by not striking back
but absorbing the blow
instead of repelling it

this new world waiting
beyond the precipice
daunting in its simplistic ardour
roaring echoes of a lion's den

not stepping out nor in
amid the tempestuous wasteland
scorching reflective ideations
fill the expansive surroundings

like a love lost twice
while merely walking alone
sweating through heavy armour
chafing at the bolted joints

reluctance is a scattered dream

- an impossible journey -
contradicting emphemeral motions
unconsolable solace in solitude

so hear these words carefully:

my story is reluctant