Any Other Name

last of his kind

Poetry

last of his kind

rouakcz / Adobe Stock

I rose by any other name,
a nom de plume, a nom de guerre,
‘twixt execration and acclaim.
A string of runes; a breath of air.

The crash of symbols punctuates
from reveille to requiem.
Affiliation fluctuates,
as does the honorarium.

Identity is turbulent,
like breakers clawing at the rocks.
As anything, impermanent,
and co…