My Rimbaud remains unfound.  It is so close yet so far away.  It grazes my fingers and then flaps back again leaving me desolately seeking.  I do not fret for the stars do still shine and the man on the moon continues to smile down on me.  A Moonchild at heart and birth I speak to the moon.  Its quintessential spirit merely emotes to me the fate and plight of all humankind.  And it tells me of my Rimbaud.  The ever elusive yet attainable goal that we will be forever sought.  The search continues—perhaps perpetually.  Perhaps it is not meant to end.  It seems only death can finalize the search.  So, my Rimbaud, however improbable, I shall find thee.  I shall reach and grasp at stars and clouds and ocean waves.  I shall search the caverns and mines and jungles.  In the end—if there ever is an end—the search will continue.







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