My final ode.
I was born of District 101. I came of age at the Dep[art]ment.
This is the place.
We bled our love here and sometimes too much life, to map our mythologies across these bricks that bear witness
to all the limits leapt past the better to retrace, or all the weaknesses we smeared all over the walls.
And the twilight dancers never go home; when daylight wanes, the immortal revellers come out to play, perched high in their palace overlooking the tides:
The lost boy wonder buckling under an overgrown heart, with open palms and the pixie’s spark,
The pale dancing beauty of the world-weary eyes…whiplash girlchild, shine so bright…
The warm wind, spinning (landing), the golden boy with the smile that blinds,
The overgrown child of awestruck eyes, impatiently painting his wayward path home,
Our beloved emcee (so much malgré lui), the towering love-child of insatiable lusts,
La libanaise capricieuse, of insatiable life,
And me, the lifestruck observer, just give me a corner to write this down. Darlings, peel open this mold as I slowly slip into my skin.
“Oh are you going?” he asked. A grin and stillness hold the air.
“I don’t leave this party.”
I would do it all again.
Keeping Inspiration 