I do not die. I saunter the same route over and over.
I do not cry. I moisten the goblet and stay sober,
worshipping the intangible, every aesthetic fiber.
Like a sweater I once wore, I stretch until no more,
thinking too much, trying as such.
Then, I let go, shrinking to a ball, a frivolous and frail blob.
I do not defy, for I am a coward, a forgotten lover.
I do not fly. A flutter of wings, with a quaver,
a cacophony warbles, “fake,” “loser,” and hovers.