Here is my adventure.
Off to who knows where,
Or for how long.
I’m sick of being just another twinkling light in the city,
Or some mindless sheep,
So here I go to my self-excommunication.
From the society that sees itself so righteous.
It perhaps might end in death,
Testing my most extreme limits,
Causing me to cuss out my God,
for the hell I’m putting myself through.
But this is still my greatest wish, of life.
For I shall take my place with the Romantics.
Just like Keats, Byron, and Shelley,
My heart and pen rely solely upon
The pure energy and beauty,
Of the rocks, trees, rivers, and animals.
My soul belongs to them now.
L’appel du vide.