privacy from my own abstractions, indeed
refuge, to the contrary
how practical of midas
i fear my gift is bringing gold to life
to create danger from dormancy
one day it will be the dusk
i've not met the west yet
but the universe can't babysit me for much longer
i'd welcome my mischief if it didn't portend my end so surely
no, i hurry towards it
eager to finally destroy something real
i want the golden dirt to swirl around me
i want to animate the shyest of molecules
i want an evitable demise
i want the ink to cower
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