It’s not how you draw the loaded gun,
Like a badass John Wayne,
Or fairytale-thirsty, like Don Quixote,
Or just plain mean and evil,
Like the wicked queen who looks at the mirror on the wall,
Imploring for affirmation, for continuity.
It is also not how cunning your mind is,
To be that sly fox who dupes the other, just to get ahead.
You’re only as bad as what you profess and do,
In the name of love; to preserve oneself and your lover.
Like that man who climbed a steep balcony, from where,
A lass named Juliet, was looking, near and far,
Her heart open to falling, when a fall could easily terminate,
In an infinity symbol, or in a full stop.
And I too, have tried to climb a balcony,
So many times now, failing each time.
Making me like the wind-eroded badlands,
A topography so unique in formation and presence.
And I will be driving my vintage Italian Fiat,
With my number plate reading “Verona”
Down my own Amalfi Drive, my chosen road,
And I’m only as bad as my pathology dictates,
Of being truly hyperopic;
An ocular disease, of far-sightedness,
Being long distance-drawn,
Like a quixotic love fool, searching
For that rare eternal asylum,