Ghosts from Brazil

I don't try.
I sell myself nothing short on instinct:
I now break away!
Taked one step further;
from my favorite number?
How many guessed it.
Right or wrong of me.
Everything, not in everybody,
depends on my miserable interest.
The tinman's loss of a heart-beat,
and the abortion of playing with fire.
Where the fight floats on air,
in flight.
I am up to conscious.
The cell is a prison.
Its paradise lost unto death, behind
bars, and alive as myself.
As am I. . .
I am over the sunshined past - present -
future,
its ended.
The long eyelashes (mine) blinked.
My obsession without having jumped it.
Imagine like frogs - frogs,
teaching you the correct form
or method
for doing a push-up or cartwheel.
I've unwounded me from it,
intellectual curiosity aroused
not from robotic mechanical
movements
but enigmatic spiritualled entropy.
Ethnic, eccentric and
enigmatic of me.
No voids of emptied spaces
I have learned to treat
all diseases.