In their room,
isolated for display,
I am paraded about.
I wish I could lay asleep
and listen to the boiler's hum.
Grateful for fortune
"for who needs it more than me."
They are not all black and white
through my terministic lens.
Why do I live at all,
why do I love at all...
perhaps my curse will haunt others,
or they will get over themselves
after the novelty.
I am dressed like a child
and treated like an animal.
"Romeo," more like Cyrano,
my love keeps me going:
love for art,
love seldom shown,
love that raps upon my bones.
Sophistication at a cost.
You are not good
nor bad,
Mr. Treves.
So kind, to meet you.
