just like gatsby

he was a subconscious chaos

masking his perpetual absence

in colorful metaphor

a dim light on a dark night

vaguely flickering on someone else’s dock

a viridescent beacon kept alight

by the electricity of his own apathy

seducing common moths

by colluding with the autumnal moon

he who fancies himself

an aetheist aurora borealis

is merely a distant facsimile

of self fulfilling vanity

he procrastinates just like gatsby

envies the flamingo clouds

in my mind’s skies

with an occasional wink designed to pacify

he hasn’t the time for aging butterflies

by belonging to none

neither friend nor enemy

he remedies nothing

but then again

i’m no buchanan

a. duncan, 2018

fantasy.jpg

 

Artwork by the brilliant Yohey Horishita (http://yoheyhorishita.com/)

 

 

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"She would fill endless notebooks with stories about the characters in her life, their impressions, words, friends, lovers, inspirations, fantasies. She spent her days dreaming up worlds where they fit together in visions; the if only, the never again, the someday. Those who knew her best would describe her as a creature with a clear and sometimes painful sense of herself; furious with ideas and convictions, to a point that she frightened love away with discernment and a relentless strength of character."

3 thoughts on “just like gatsby

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