while he dwelt upon the detours of all his good intentions.
For the toils of beauty are not equal nor just -
It is a vindictive enemy -
the more you resist the more insistent it becomes -
demanding full fare for your life
and this, for many is not as much of a question - as it is a
promise to some destiny at the next stop.
He became less his ideas and more the ambitions reflected by
his place, his status, his money,
his friends, his haughty collections but mostly, he was a
myriad of all his doubts and insecurities.
And, in the end, even the mirror could not recognize him.
That gifted box sitting in the closet -
contains all the compliments, real and perceived, he once
numbered.
And the box wrappings with all the blossomy ribbons?
Those are the self-denials to himself as the best possible
ornament.
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