I’ve always believed that living rewards
but the giant scene makes me seem a child
I’m just a quirk who was sorely bitten
by a radioactive Oscar Wilde

Everybody feels like a golden man
And not a single soul wants to be naïve
We are all gazing at differing hands
And we’re blind to the aces in the sieve

Ah but what am I to pretend these things
A curious cripple past the prodigy’s prime
A wounded beast with hollow teeth
flossing his demons another time

But I am that I am, as the answer goes
to all the difficult questions of mine
What can I do when nobody knows
whether devils are stealing my wine?

Is the fog choking my world?
Or is it merely saving my breath?