The Desultory Apostate

I am a desultory apostate who does not recognise who he is and why he has become what he has become. What was once written in ink as verse is now carved with tools in the air in prose and moves, is breathed and is ephemeral yet eternal.

I do not know what I have renounced or why I have made my gestures of opposition and to it and renunciation of it. Perhaps sleep will show what I do not know more clearly.

It is complicated.

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