Listen to poem:
Elysium Is a Verb
Written: November 20, 2025,
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The future is not a place—
It is a quidnunc calyx,
a capacious chalice
for those who dare to drink
the elixir of their own becoming.
Dreamers do not sleep.
They careen through cloudscapes,
gamboling past the gaudy gates
of flapdoodle and fear,
flaneurs of the ineluctable.
Their thoughts are canorous,
etched in hieroglyph and hex,
diaphanous as sky skims,
yet fierce as a hoyden’s howl.
They do not dissemble.
They rake through the rubble
of dismal days,
threadbare but unbroken,
writhe into catharsis
and call it art.
Their hearts are fipple-fluted,
gargling with garrulous grace,
eloquence stitched into
the petiole of every breath.
They wear tiaras woven
from wisteria’s bloom,
not crowned with the weight of hubris—
and gently lighten the heavy load.
Borne by the forgotten and the lost.
They are fetching,
felicitous,
iconoclasts of the somber.
They do not fear the gaseous unknown,
nor the egregious elision of comfort.
They are the herons of Elysium,
gamboled and glorious,
Each dream is a byzantine map
to a future
Only they can read.
So believe—
not in the desultory hush
of what was,
But in the foison of what could be.
The future is yours
at the behest of beauty.
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