I wear a firefighter’s cap without a uniform, and without a Dalmatian,
Without a place in a firehouse
I splash on make-up as a lady in a masquerade without foundation, without blush,
Without a dancehall, gilded in white gold,
I tout around with a heavy book, scratchy cotton and a cane, yelling theories,
Without a mouth to speak it and no ears to hear it
I pull the weak, lightly metaled trigger of a pistol, in the arid desert, no one but I alive,
Without a sun beating down on, without a gun, and without a rush of danger

In imagination’s desire and reprieve,
A coolant to the wound of boredom, of sloth
Of fear.
Do I rely on the fears to bring hopes alive?
Is it for the fear, the urge, the ravine, deep indeed,
That I ache for a quick lever,
A quick solution to the silence
Why do I do anything at all?

I dream like a spider without an Amygdala
Without an idea of pain or horror and fear
Like a queen or a soldier in the desert, in the gala,
A warrior for myself and my sanity, all that is dear,
In and out of focus, a desire, a goal, a dream,
Is never without the dreamer, less the dreary,
Who thought one day, “How does that star gleam?”
And the next day, said to a sky less one star, “If only, my Augury?”