"Curiosity: life after art"

Respiration is his enmity.
He sits alone, waiting with several chairs,
aging magazines [empty], full of despair.
His listless physic requires remedy.
The aura's clamor clings to his skin,
lingering as sticky unconditioned
climate air.
                   Suddenly he's mise en scene,
aloft, in the portrait. The ascension;
atop the crag he submits to the gods
that grant him peace [briefly]. Breathing deeply
before being lent patience, discreetly
descending through the clouds, but down he trods
and leaves the frame.
                                   He exclaims, "I don't need 'em!"
and, again, breathes in that thin sense of freedom.
His life before the clime had been weary,
but art became his apothecary.


Word of the day
- vamoose - def: to go away quickly; to leave hurriedly