It has been many, many years
Since I questioned your stony
Easter Island face.
What do you think matters?
Or more importantly
What do you believe
Doesn't matter?
You were always a yardstick of righteousness.
Romantic, realist, asshole--
It never mattered.
You said everything like a goddamn sage.
And how long did it take me
To pull down your statue,
To slip the yoke I had fashioned
From your rhetoric, year after year
In those formative days?
Now, we do not speak.
But once in a while one of your
Black arrows sails through my window
And bleeds a random darling.
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