It so happens I’m not as mature as I like to think I am,

and that I adore what everybody deifies:

A treasure to thrive over

and a glow of immortality,

that I sort of want to live on a cliff

and feel like a lion standing there,

looking down over blossoms of gold

and green

and orange,

and watching the gazelle revere me,

and when it hurts

to watch so much go down the toilet underneath me,

but open by my hand,

I’d like to believe

I’m paying homage to my father,

in a way, thanking him for ruining the illusion of beauty

I hold so dear,

for making me flourish into one of the honorable

who choose to fail over the edge of praise,

so that I can stand there, looking up to who I was,

and wither into who I am.