I'll live
weaving tears into laughter,
sculpting sorrows
with a titanium chisel
carving glee.
My tactic
is to be myself,
whom you met
and yet other,
larger, faster,
sleek as the leopard
I fancy myself.
My strategy,
to exist.
Sooner or later,
you might need your friend.
We all need one.
At least one,
at some point.
My target.
If you come to my deathbed,
fifty years from now,
to say "hello",
it'd be a victory.
A pyrrhic one, alas.
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