In their formative
moments
artists live alone
Sharing themselves
only when
the pain has dulled
In corners
of dark musings
their spirit’s hide
Calling out
whenever the lights go down
— and the rush is gone
(The New Room: May, 2025)
Orphans In The Bastille
All the pure thinkers
are slave to the Poet
Their theories self-serving
whose quotients divide
With ‘facts’ that convict them
to prisons constructed
From every transcendence
— their numbers can’t hide
(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: May, 2025)