*Far, Far — Go Far.*

*Far, far — go far.*

Was I runnin’ at midnight — or mournin’?  
Bright‑red, bright‑eyed —  
courage steamin’ in the cold.  

Thighs like cherries, vaporous in the frigid dew o’ dawn,  
treadin’ the old Southern road.  

Must I ascertain my essence —  
why exhume the specter of who I was?  
There existed an epoch, more august than my present self.  

*Far, far — go far.*  
Is it midnight — or is it mornin’?  
Were there pangs an’ torments in the frost —  
yet sinews burn within my attire,  
compelled to persist in the February —  
the fire.  

February —  
what bitter degree dares strike my kind?  
“It withers ‘fore the scorchin’ pyre — my blade.  
Discipline o’ heart, discipline o’ mind —  
what line of sentiment have I betrayed?”  

*Far, far — go far.*  
Did I falter — or did I founder?  
Did I stammer — or tremble in fear?  

Dare cast reverence ’pon me —  
tears fall free from these maid’ned bones.  

My Soul — damp an’ sap‑swollen —  
greets the flame.  

Moisture gathers, a drippin’ — *tsssss* —  
fallin’ ’neath its frame.  

Tempt builds,  
a pressur’n mount’n in soaked grain.  

Fire lickin’ wood;  
it crackles, spits, and bursts —  
sudden, sharp, like gun‑shot —  
strivin’ to contain.  

Though ringin’ through as though  
a great tree riven in its marrow.  

Sap and water ’rupt from within,  
steam risin’, seethin’ —  
veins a‑split’n’, scatterin’  
from wounds the fire hath torn.  

Steam coils upward, stirrin’ thin,  
risin’ —  
yet the body still remains,  
yet cannot endure —  

its heart laid bare in flame,  
emotion forc'n outward under strain.  

Pride’ll surely rise when I’m alone —  
yet pride shall rise when I’m alone.  

What longitude compels breadth and voyage?  
What latitude invokes depth and ascent?  

Kindlin’ brambles in the dark forest —  

*Far, far — go far.*  
Smoke risin’ up to a cloudy firmament.  

What tribulations haunt your daylight hours  
did not perturb me —  
’til my road was blocked entire,  
and it finally hurt me.  

Encircled by afflictions of others,  
I murmur: O felicitous, O fortuitous day.  

Do you not discern what fortifies me?  
You — whether mirthful or morose —  
it governs me.  
I’d love you all the way.  

Do you apprehend my anguish?  
Do you perceive how it destroys me?  

All that I endeavor  
siphons breath from my chest.  

In its most unembellished form —  
am I perishing?  
All that I do…  

*Far, far — go far.*  
Is it midnight — or is it mornin’?