Lethargic he is, wrapped in dreams:
in fantasies of sleep.
A soft blanket of maybe-loves, and enebriated influences.
Mind detained and pryed-wide, they delve.
Charades of what they know to be fact,
and an idea of their fiction.
Strewn across a sea of time- of shameful development,
these shadows rape him, embody his body,
and accuse him of the very thing they want him to be.
Not a piece of Aegean art to hang glamorously upon a barren white wall-
not a kaleidescope to see the world in geometric capabilities.
Nothing colorful; no. In his sleep, in his being, he will do as he's told.
He will be what they desire him to be. And his splendor?
No, this is not an object.
It's no more colorful than a crippled-provoking notion, lashed
across the face of a whore.