Life is short. Art is long.


When you learn how to paint
you envision a world void of
choice, then like time you give life
to the future—creating a garden
where the thoughts of a man dwell in
oblivion.

I have learned how to be a good storyteller
—to narrate to unseen ears the miracles that
existed before life was brought out of earth.
But this life does not give me credence
for my simplicity neither does it embrace 
my feelings when my soul seeks a home
from fear.

When I told the truth in August: 
about a Zulu king in heaven, about
the voices that hid themselves beneath
the sod, about time and the sincerity 
on a seer's tongue—I was romanced with 
fear, for I thought death 
would come like unwanted sleep.

But I have done well. I have made
anew the things that matter most 
to existence: the complexity of time
—which is to rationalize confusion;
and the believe that life is fiction— 
and most importantly to stay at home