I do not need to be in love with anyone
When I am in love with the world
With cities and with
Dead men who write beautiful words
And the pages that those words are on
Beckon, ask for more, ask for
Beautiful binding for their gorgeous books
And I look at them the way
Someone would look at a magnificent woman
With longing and with care.
Is there not a person in this world
That I am so in love with
Who could make me feel
As books do?
The parade of vagabond bohemians
Line up in the streets
Pitch their tents and
Bargain their wares,
Too keen to see
A wandering eye.
This misfit family is a home
Like no other, and I
Imagine myself a hedonist
But find friction too productive
So I wander with the wind,
I become carried away as
I carry myself away.
But with passion is
The only way to live,
And if it kills me
Then so be it.
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