I envy he who ne’er did know
the weight of self on shoulders worn—

though has he no shoulders of which to speak

A mod magician of the dirt
A fluid body not-quite-fond







of ancient skins may leave them lucent
Discarding remnants at free will

Envy I how the friend in green—

though friends I know we ne’er will be—
eludes the coat of vintage years







Non-secular is rebirth, I’m told,

but for that babe who ne’er must hold the

entity with which he came


Be I naive to envy he

who admiration ne’er has gained?





A wistful fool I am indeed
Still covet I the fortune of the fiend

who has escaped the burdened creed

that wicked Nature set in stone

for those whose skins cling to the bone