I am postmodern,
a season leashed by its
A-possibility-soup sans mire-poix
where ideals are as sacred as
the phantom wings of amputated
My name was invented by a feather
dipped in confiscated ink
possessed by the man
as a Mondrian tie, while
Rothko lines of ineffable truth
confound both scholars and priests alike
and artists held me to their glue.
An eternity spent without spare time
has made me
blind to any natural cortège,
I march like rain, elude any shelter
and have finally arrived to announce the end
of all subsequent eras.
The opposition, trapped in distraction, refuses to offer
any counter argument,
and so I remain…unchanging in time.