II

I have wasted myself, I suppose,
because of all the ways my mind goes
and that it only holds what's important to me.
And I know its sick, that's no way to be,
when there's math and numbers and hypotheses.
But I have filled monsters in the seas
and tales and myths in my fortification
I cannot let go of my imagination.

I pity you, someday, other time,
I pity my greasy green grime--
I pity you because “you”
is in rhythm with “through.”
You are through with your imagination
and fed yourself digits, time and limitation.
You go to bed fair and up held,
I'll go only if all my dreams have failed.