the man who became his clothes

because the onlookers beamed, cheered and it felt good. but shallow, shrug that off - because the ends justify the means, and it is all about winning. and what is it? it's whatever when the wind brings luck, it's whatever when the seas are calm, it's whatever when the sun never goes down when chasing the sun is a one way ticket to where the frenzied crowds keep their rosy glasses and the sound of slots being cashed - what a delight to be in forever harmony with the tiger lilies in full bloom with pollen rising in the air, heading towards clouds growing legs and sprinting for the key that unlocks a secret door that yawns to consume the yellow fevered brain hot with self appraisal but the self is gone - and an addled leaf is forlorn, breaking free from a branch unable to give tit for tat, from roots no longer able to reach a heart long stolen from all that noise. a purple haze suffocating, a siren whose looks have faded. a vanquished dream no longer having wings to fly. broken vessels with no fire to keep the engine running, the next breath was - clothing collapsing without a spine. clothing being taken up by another would be dreamer whose dream sounded much like rats caught in a trance.