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Ode to Ali Baba - Portrait of a Young Man as The Artist — LiveJournal
abmann
abmann
Ode to Ali Baba
Sand of the desert always held
the slightest bit of adventure to me.
Sand, like a well beaten metaphor,
ticks away the moments between me,
the fantasy, and the thousands of miles between me
and a destiny of kings.
I am not the lone ranger, on horse back
shooting red devils. I am not the burglar
building a house of cards in an earthquake.
I am the fedora-wearing
magnate, fighter of proper villains as they bash the children
you all love. With sand in my boots and snakes warming themselves
on my radiant body at night
is a short list - a remarkably tumultuous list -
that say I am better than you.
Ali Baba, a brother me in the days
when I was still young, tells me had he been not
superstitious, I could have been his 41st thief -
Cassim among royalty. The only respite
I'd receive would be lost in a martyr's tomb,
covered by rocks the size of God,
or death at the hands of ancient, self-fulfilling prophecies.
I am not Ali Baba's thief; timeless pickpocket
I am feeding ducks on the pond,
with old men's bread,
not in the Sahara dunes being better than you.

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