Certain contrivances cannot,
under duress, sustain the structure
of this my private mythology.
Condemn them to the scrap heap,
so says intuition. History’s feeble tree
has yet to come to fruition, and
there are some who say it never will,
not in anyone’s meager lifetime.
Now that I’ve come untethered
from first principles,
once so self-evident they sparkled,
the colors of my personality are free
to become as rabid as I like.
That’s the kind of liberty
that money simply can’t buy.
Or rather, undermine.