Is it I who inscribes himself upon the shale of immortality;
To wander naught in the realms of habitude,
But in the whimsical nature of alienation
And I humbly ask: To what pleasure is thine, upon this epiphany?

To transcend the dogma of mundane eccentricities
Is to astound the world, classically
For the venerated sage offers, in his palm, a resonating force, lost to the
Echo in the halls of humanity

As the sun dawns upon Eretz Yisrael
The intrinsic surge of the prismatic being unto which I consist,
Disperse upon the plane of my existence
The shepherd, tending to the brilliance, gazes at the last sheep come

I jump, but forget how to stand
Instead, I decide to levitate upon anxiety;
Meander through fear; and lose all worth in sorrow
I clearly mock the distain of others

I don’t desire to ruin this white canvas
But the watercolor infuses so well as to not
Lose the original serenity
Each stroke seeps into the fibers of being

The shores of dreams and valueless peace
Piece the fog of youth; crack my prism
Drawing forth a new revelation of inevitability
It will come, prepared or not

At this I realize
To what pleasure is thine, upon this epiphany

Laureate