2008 (we fall up)

This is a piece I wrote almost exactly one year ago. After writing it, I decided that from now on, I would write a very specific poem at the end of every year as a reflection. This was my 2008:

(january)

In the beginning the snow fell
and the sun shined,
the bags had evaporated from underneath our eyes
and all I could do was do what I was told.
I reached that fake milestone
the one no cares about. I’m not even sure if I did.
A time to celebrate alone.

(february)
Happy fucking birthday, dear.
My tongue started to bleed
and a smudge of ink started to appear below my pinky—
Only the paper paid dearly as I wrote
that this is the beggining of the end.
The winter went but I decided to stay.

(march)
I could feel no pain,
And I rarely decided to wake up,
I stared- until a beeping went off in my head,
the same beeping that woke me up in the morning
for no reason at all.
if you had listened close enough, you could have heard it, too.

(april)
It wasn’t a nightmare because it wasn’t a dream.
It all just happened while I slept
we haven’t wept (yet).
It was hard to smile
because it was hard to breathe,
I only did what I thought I should
And one time I stopped to drop
and hold you close.

(may)
I clawed my way back up the face of the earth
to look it into the eyes
and see the sun come up.
The night fell and you sat on my curb.
There were so many stars in your eyes
and I wasn’t one of them.
I was only the rain.

(june)
I drank the sweetest drink
wondering what else I could have done,
but the leash was gone and all I could do
was miss it.
It was hot but it rained
on The Worst Day
and then I began to wonder—

(july)
but then I began to leave.
never a late night and never a late morning,
hardly a late goodnight.
Some nights I could hardly stand
so I sat outside and pushed off the mountain
gazing at the stars and the lights
that could have been your eyes.
my father was my only friend.

(august)
sleep is nice, but naps were better.
my stomach was sick just like me,
I was bitter and nervous and excited and sick
I had to make myself laugh
I decided to inject myself with my own blood
and let my veins freeze
so I could move past me and you and enter the world.

(september)
the beeping started again
but the sun was shining
and I had leveled up.
I gave nothing and I took little.
Conserving myself.
The only thing I flirted with
was quicksand.

(october)
I really needed a haircut.
I could’ve sworn I was losing you
on the inside,
I started to trust all of you but
I stayed home when I should have
gone door to door to find enough skittles
for you and I.

(november)
The line was drawn on the ice,
but ice can always melt.
I put on my lifejacket.
We weren’t standing blindfolded
but neither of us could choose.
Eventually I had to draw my curtains,
You turned on the light
and I gave thanks that you
will always be my best friend.

(december)
The snow started to fall again
and we needed to keep warm.
It was getting hard to breathe,
So I jumped across the gulch
that I had looked down for almost seven years.
you unlocked the bathroom door and
a little blonde boy, who was crying,
dashed out. he will be back,
but I just grew.

Ours are Forever

Smoke is filling the room now

and her father, he’s gone away.

Although he’s not too hard to visit,

she has no bed in which to stay.

My father is still finishing his beer

while she’s lifting her glass of champagne.

Be careful when opening the fridge door,

my mother's slowly going insane.

We couldn’t see then how dark it was,

it would be too long before days got better.

She turned on the light the night she wrote that

Ours are Forever.

My girl has twinkling eyes of diamonds,

she’s become my lover and my teacher.

Since diamonds are usually forever,

will she eventually become my preacher?

On the television, we’ve got our friends,

but the doctor is knocking on the door.

Though neither of us has slept for years,

he has to sulk away ‘cause we’re poor.

And learning how to best lie

proved to be our greatest endeavor.

I’d sleep in until the evening, dreaming that

Ours are truly Forever.

Those two friends, yes, they were once lovers,

I once heard it ended in predictable fashion.

He dealt her the jack of hearts, or so it goes,

and it took too long to regain her passion.

In the first months, I couldn’t stop vomiting—

we were holding each other’s hair.

Out of habit, she kept me in my bedroom

and I should’ve stepped out to care.

You should know by now that one boy’s girl

will soon be another’s sunken treasure.

Since I’ve never had many cards to play,

Ours could be Forever.

I was laughing in the middle of the circle

though I’m not sure I quite got the joke.

They’d warn me “you’re just obsessed, my friend”,

and then they’d take a toke.

Two stupid boys are wrestling,

she sighs at them while they shove.

We’re rolling, groaning and sweating—

well, aren’t we just makin’ love?

Whenever I feel like there’s sun, rain or hail

I know it’s her controlling the weather.

Meanwhile, Mother Nature is shouting that

Ours can’t be Forever.

Under the sun that shines for us so brightly,

she leans in just to lick my ear.

To be afraid is to be incompetent,

at least, that’s what I hear.

Our orchestra is playing too loudly,

but I can still hear the sound

of children picking up the pennies

that I’ve dropped onto the ground.

Now that they’ve made a wish and profit,

they’re off to visit the fortune teller.

And though he’s smoking heavily, he says

Ours might be Forever.

My grandpa, he wonders when Jesus is coming

as he plays Yahtzee out on his porch.

His time for loving is gone from him now,

and without hesitation, he passes onto me the torch.

That Lutheran guilt has escaped us now

as the mother resigns from the head

of the church her daughter only went to

to learn love and the alphabet.

As for believing in things that I couldn't see,

I used to think I was far too clever.

The only thing driving me then was that

Ours will be Forever.

Though I've dropped my baby yet again,

she has about seventeen lives,

and though she needs my touch to live,

all my fingers have turned into knives.

Her garden was full of handsome flowers,

but they all wilted and ran inside.

Trampled by her unfortunate beauty,

they couldn’t grow ‘till they cried.

Her hair flows just like a waterfall, and

is beautiful as a mallard’s green feather;

The first time I'd gotten too close to it, I knew

Ours must be Forever.

Three pretty girls are moving across the water,

and I despise myself when I try to look.

They all look like my girl, in their camo gear,

so it doesn’t count in my book.

Her hamster, it’s feeling quite queasy,

and her family tells her nothing but lies.

On the eve of her golden birthday,

It’s going to get better before it dies.

And though we’re feeling quite thirsty,

you can’t pump water without a lever.

When the drought has lasted this long,

Ours feel like Forever.

It wasn’t my fault my back was still sore

or if her mouth was hanging wide open.

Even the tooth fairy gets jealous sometimes,

for her smile’s only cracked, not broken.

That boy, he wasn’t touching her too nicely;

yes, I'd forgotten how to stand.

I slept with the cat real low that night, promising

I’d never again ask for a third hand.

As we turned off our separate lights,

I knew I couldn’t bear to hear her

crying to herself at night, thinkin’

Ours aren’t quite Forever.

It’s that time of the month again,

and our problems are always on track.

While one just straightens their posture,

the other ends up breaking their back.

The time we’ve wasted is dead now,

while our conversations, they fly off of the shelves.

And just like your eyelashes against snowflakes,

you’ve got to shield this from ourselves.

No, I can't imagine ever being born

without reading your spring-soaked letter,

signed near the exit, with a heart inside,

Ours are Forever.

-Spring, 2009

do you love what I love?

Writes the tired son to his dad,

do you wish what I wish?

In the farthest land, my dear dad,

do you wish what I wish?

Her eyes, her eyes,

twinkling like the tree,

her tinsel eyes looking straight into me.

Sighs his dad to the street-side kids,

does he care what I care?

Another year's gone by, street-side kids,

does he care what I care?

A gift, a gift,

his apology,

a gift to end all misery.

Asks the street-side kids to their girl,

does it snow where we go?

It's too cold here now, my sweet girl,

does it snow where we go?

A bed, a bed,

hidden from the storm,

this bed where we can always be warm.

Called the girl to the one she always knew,

do you feel what I feel?

Has the year ended yet, boy I knew?

Do you feel what I feel?

The rain, the rain,

melted from the snow,

the rain we never will show.

scribbled secrets (keep your tongue away!)

This girl, she has a smile

that makes the aching worth the while,

she's got me spinning at the carnival,

and I'm not leaving here today.

The dust erupts from the stage,

my body's begging for to sneeze,

I wipe desires on my sleeve,

sighing that it just won't be today.

The audience shelters their neighbors,

the ceiling's raining daily papers,

I mailed her my burning copy,

though we're not on that page today.

In a locked jar I keep the gravel

from the worn-down road she travels,

towards the borderline, so near,

but it's vanished, at least for today.

The white flowers are blooming

in the face of certain peril,

I'll be wishin' them farewell,

but I'll be kissin' them today.

I'm not proud of the fire I fashion,

combustion seems to be my only passion,

since I only want what I can't need,

so I don't need anyone, today.

frost, frequently

the frost covered x lies in the corner with a book covering its eyes—

which should come as no surprise, he never woulda came

unless he thought it could all be the same, but he's always wrong

so he pretended to sleep while searching for a song

that held significance that no one would notice,

it was painfully obvious and morose,

but everyone kept playing their social letter games,

pretending the k and the a and the b don't exist,

and the l and the e, they continued to persist.

was that his intention, they murmured,

to be so awful and full of pride?

that was the reflection in the frosty window,

and without it, he surely woulda died.

this reflection lives in the damp chambers

of my piece of mind; I can't control,

he eats the pits of all the nectarines

and keeps my right hand on parole.

his gravel wrist of bones has got a vice grip

that I can't replicate, and the forlorn trip

we're begging to take won't come true,

he's blocking off the avenue, mind if I

go back in time and try again once more?

the x awakes to hear a frantic sort of scratching,

and wonders aloud who is writing on the door.

who else but the reflection in the frosty window,

apologizing for all his behavior before.

the unrelenting sun has blinded the crew

of the traveling art show we've all been through,

with their poorly made sticks, they poke along,

telling the more fortunate folk to remain strong,

and to stay smiling, but I know they're wrong,

because they can no longer see through the window—

(the reflection can no longer wave a toxic hello)

no, I refuse to be your dark-rimmed 'strong',

to anyone, my inky smile should belong.

you will never be that empty page

that I once wrote on under a summer moon.

there was only the reflection in the frosty window,

and he knew it would all be over soon.

deadly lily, I'm sick of wasting minutes and words

on this endless breaking circle directed towards

the boys who only want something pretty,

not so hollow and gritty, like the flower that I pity—

so pretend you're something less,

something elusive and tragic and fruitless,

because yes, I did eat all the pits,

and blew the reflection an alphabet kiss,

hoping he'd pull me out of all of this,

but he just traced this frosty poem,

that I wrote down as a newfound totem.

it filled up all my last pages,

spewing reasons never to read the first,

but hurt always comes from the reflection in the frosty window;

this book is truly the worst.

shake me down, winter

shake the snow out of your christmas hair,

shake the tears out of yourself.

shake the snowglobe, and then I swear

to shake the thoughts of only myself.

the fresh pine leaves are all wet,

just like the boat that keeps sinking,

and I haven't fallen for you quite yet,

because it ain't fall, or so I've been thinking.

shake the shoulders of boys in love,

shake the presents that you deserve.

shake the sleigh bells I am dreaming of,

so I can shake my nerve.

winter's coming

and I need a brighter coat.

In the meantime, I'm just humming

a tune about missing the boat.

shake the eggnog before it spills,

shake the fingertips of an empty shell.

shake this silence, it's giving me chills,

since I'm shaking now, can't you tell?

we wake to hear you sleeping

(2am)
dear girls,
an hour ago, everyone was uncomfortable.
love, boys.

(3am)
dear girls,
these blankets don't have eyelashes.
love, boys.

(4am)
dear girls,
our voices aren't so high anymore.
love, boys.

(5am)
dear girls,
what are you dreaming of?
love, boys.

(6am)
dear girls,
your pictures are cut out of the yearbook.
love, boys.

(7am)
dear girls,
the sun's breath fogged up our windows.
love, boys.

(8am)
dear girls,
we brought you eggs but you weren't there.
love, boys.

(9am)
dear girls,
we're tired of working to make things work.
love, boys.

(10am)
dear girls,
we miss being uncomfortable.
love, boys.

08/08/08

I shouldn't have to say when this was written:

A pretty girl travels from my computer to my television to my heart.
My stomach, it churns when she (you) is (are) hurt. I feel like I made a promise.
They’ll never hurt you like I do.
When she is held, I want to hold someone. When she is kissed-
Pull me away from it all now.

In a moment I consider everything I’ve ever hated.
A drink, a knife, a brush, a bed.
Then I reach deep into my fridge and grab a Coke.
I pray that’s all that will ever happen.

It all looks the same, night.
The only thing telling you what’s different are those clocks of yours.
So turn them off.
Turn off all of the clocks in your room and just wait.
You can convince yourself that the night has only just begun. But wait.
Wait for the sun to rise, so that you can stop telling yourself it’s only midnight.

And so the sun is ignored for my sleep.

You’re going to have to do so much more, you know.
You think I’ll leave my bed? Now that you’ve finally gotten me in?
Leave me alone. You shouldn’t want to be around me.
Yes; I will help you, But only until you leave.

You have to listen to me:
No matter what I do, no matter what I say, please take me to laughter.
And no matter how hard that laughter comes, make it come.
I can still be a nice boy. I just need a friend.

The fire slowly dies by my hand.
The rain pours harder but it’s not what I want, not what I asked for.
The time slowed, if only for a second, so I could hear the rain.
The flame wraps itself around my hand.

Its 11:12 and I murmur because no one around me understands.

I’m lying on top of two paths.
On my right I can let the sun shine over
and be as happy as my smile makes me appear.
And on my left I can inject frost and blood into my fingers, and understand it all.
I’m just trying to be right, here.

get gorgeous

You've got to get gorgeous, girl,
you're far too sweet for the word,
too sweet for any sentence I conjure with a smile,
or any landscape I could paint, watching you all the while.

You've got to get restless, kid,
if you ever want to leave behind
this locked-up, pushed-down, tasteless ritual
that you might eat someday (and find quite distasteful).

You've got to find yourself, friend,
before someone gorgeous will find you
to trace out the sun amidst your black showers,
then whisper in your ear, and tear down your wallflowers.

You've got to get smart, bud,
if you're gonna try to slap my wrist again,
and wipe the spit off my face with your Christmas sweater,
and hand me a note— a burning "you're getting better".

I, meanwhile, I'm trying to get gorgeous,
just to maybe feel like I deserve the girl
whose face shines in the movielight, from the corner of my eye,
and whose laugh forces a smile to all who might cry.

dreaming of a craic

quit this morose midnight charade!

strap on the snuggly dream machine!

take a trip through the future

while wishing for a different past!

but enough with being different!

crawl up the face of the earth!

look into her eyes!

and soon, you'll be dreaming!

dreaming of a craic,

smelling of wine and cologne,

until my face is covered in earth,

until the machine is strapped to us both,

until her midnight eyes have past.

keep one eye open

Fringe is scattered on my tearing floor,
aluminum is everywhere and numbness is growing.
gravity can hardly keep me down
and as soon as this night ends
this night can begin.

The sun should be coming soon.
will you along with it?

I have covered you in the colors
of the day I met you;
played the song that doesn't really count.
the light was just enough.

Thoughts don't come to me I go to them.
the back of my head doesn't exist at this time,
thoughts are all swirling
and they come and they go and linger
and then I realize (though it's hard to see)
that you're always there.

It's funny
because you were halfway convinced
and I (or someone who looks like me) was afraid
but 8 months later
the rain didn't matter.

A fog surrounds the room
and it rains in autumn
(it rains in autumn)
and your makeup gets washed away;
so perfectly stained.

I’m about to fall down the stairs
because my legs are shaky
and you keep telling me it’s nothing
and I’m sick of apologizing
but I really mean it when I say
that I'm bad at this and I will never
EVER believe you when you say otherwise.
at least call me brave for ever opening my mouth?

It's the most wonderful time of the night
I should really fall
(asleep) but what can I expect from
being up this late.
the dark peers into my room & I won't let it in,
it feels like you might be here
and it's 11:11
and my clocks are off.

I look for you constantly
(and think about you even more)
but the back of my head doesn't even care enough
about the rest of my body
and my strained, dilated eyes.
my glasses make this harder.

This is a great time for a break. I want to BREAK
— you've kept me waiting.
it's late and I can't feel
my toes that I can't stop scratching
my fingers that can never be still
my glasses. are. off.

I keep peeking an eye open
as you sleep and you're cheating
because you can see me.
and that makes me smile
so I'm okay with it.

I'm constantly pressing M- and still am,
while my veteran body wants my eyes to close
and the rest of me wants them to open, so wide
and see everything in front of me
but no one wants to hear about what's in front of me
(not even I do).

you keep saying something about denying the world

and I'm too tired to remember but I guess I agree

but that doesn't mean I don't hate what I do to myself

and to the world.

is that vague.

I'm preparing myself for the final trial,
which is wrong
but it's fair
which is right,
waiting for the cataclysm that will bring
me, us, this, to a new plane of
complete life.

Are you still fixing the kaleb?
sorry the back of my head doesn't exist,
for right now,
but is it okay to be happy,
for right now.
the crooked seems straight
and what's right feels weird
and it's JUST ME
COME ON AND KICK ME.

On Christmas day I passed small children;
felt the wondrous joy that they shared with their parents,
and you know (I know) what I thought.
I relive you.

My mom could walk upstairs any second
and I'd point to my door
and ask her to read the fine print.
please understand that I like the fact that
my thoughts and your dream of green and red
has become us and my catching of the clock.

i used to be a very hopeful girl.
now i'm just a lucky boy.
but we cross bridges only when we come to them,
we value what we have,
and we already know all of this.

Let's just write this one off,
a violent stomachache.
Supplement ourselves with vitamins
every single day.

You gave me pieces of paper.
I gave you pieces of my heart.
How, then, did we proceed.

Well there I go.
the answer is somewhere in the back of my head.

home for one (room for two)

I will wake up in a double bed,
I will stumble into the kitchen, eyes squinting, hair untamed,
& sun will glow & I will be blinded by a bowl of apples & I will reach to grab one,
& I will fail & grab some coffee instead.
I will forget to roast it but it tastes the same.
I will silently chew on coffee
& my eyes are still adjusting to the sun.
I am crawling across this double bed,
attempting to growl but my voice is always too hoarse & I have to try three times before it sounds the way it used to be & I'm sorry
& I am smiling, but is this big enough? Should I quit?
I pull twice to turn on the lamp, one pull too short,
& so I read my books in the dark.
I will fall on to some double bed someday,
my stomach won't fail me for once & there's no throwing up,
done with passing out— done with cracking backs,
these arms are strong now, they will never break off,
& I begin to murmur soft compliments no one will hear.
I could sleep in this double bed,
three minutes away from sleep.
One minute to remember what I will do, I will clean these sheets of mine.
Two minutes to remember why I'm here, & I've lost my sight & pull my lamp,
Three minutes to see where I am, & so much room!
Before I sleep here, I roll to the other side.
So cold.
So new.
I'm thoughtless.
& then I wipe the drool off my face,
& burrow my smile in this double bed.

perfection can and will bite me

O, Shakespeare, what are we doing?
I can’t write a play, I don’t have any vision,
I just force myself to vomit rhyme,
spew false imageries, perfect visions that
I never thought could come true,
and they won’t.
They won’t because I’m a blurred piece of silk
in a horny quilt stitched by the silly boys
who came before us, declaring themselves
the original founders of such a lovely person.
I am not an original founder, I haven’t even
found the base of the mountain so many
have climbed in the name of love.

Fuck my unoriginality, it gets me every time.
So predictable but it hides well,
I somehow fell into the leave-covered pit
while floating two inches off the ground—
Angels fall, too, you know.
This is all so boring,
such a mundane attraction, how can anyone
think that I have a brain when I only follow
my heart—
and all hearts travel the same skyway,
funneled into the same tunnel full of whips
and teases we can’t ignore. Or pass by.
Everyone stops, all hearts— stop.
How easier it would be if this stopped,
if my internal juices quit pumping
Copycat Blood.

Someone’s handed me my manual
on What To Know When You’ve Become
Like All The Rest, like all who have Broken,
the endless line of dilated pupils searching
for the renowned Light.
No one stands in line, they all lie there
bruises slowly forming on their aching bodies,
but the whip is missing from her hand,
and in its place, a white lily, she holds;
My guts, my churning failing systems
are thrusting themselves against my poor
stomach, my heart beating too strongly
against my chest, and a heart-shaped
bruise is forming on my hidden chest,
always forming.
She will never see it.
She moves, always moving,
farther, closer, sideways, towards
that guy standing in the corner,
and towards that girl two inches to my left,
she moves in Mysterious ways,
and she fucking does, too.

O Shakespeare, why am I not pure?
I can live with purity, doomed or otherwise,
I could breathe if this was impossibly perfect,
and it’s not even perfectly impossible,
but how I lie awake at night wishing it was.
Ruined it, ruined, I wilted the blooming flower,
peeled the bark off the tree and slit
the throat of the baby lamb, the blood is in my eyes,
such pink blood—

O Shakespeare, tell me this is tragedy.
I am only sixteen, so many years older than last year,
when I was fifteen,
and the year before, I was six,
and then I was born.
Still I feel, I feel and I think and I’ve stopped
thinking about always,
because no one lives for always,
so I can’t be bothered with Forever;
I can’t even be bothered with today,
it exists only to remind me of what
tomorrow might be, but I move so slowly
through these time halls, on my hands and knees
scrubbing the imperfections away
so that SHE CAN SEE how hard I might work,
harder than anyone else,
I’m harder than anyone else, I’m hard
to work with, hard to see in the nighttime,
hard to see in the daytime, hard to move in to,
hard to imagine— and I don’t think
anyone will ever want to try (again).
It’s all right, I say, it’s all right,
it has to be if I’m staying here,
in this melting igloo of yellow snow
I pissed in after one too many Cokes.

O Shakespeare, rid me of the common curse.
Soon I’ll be feeding off of it,
I’ll think it was all worth it, I’ll close my mouth
for once to feel good for once and for once
I might feel alive for a second or four.
Until that day comes, and it will come,
I swim through the sweat and tears
of all the people who make love
while thinking of someone far more perfect.
I wish, twice a day, I had the decency
to love someone so truly Ugly;
a fresh set of problems that I can deal with.
Then might I be worthy, or worth it,
worth more than a sentence or five,
for she is a novel,
and I am hardly a line.

O, Shakespeare, please tell me which word I am.

no nine/eleven

Written Feb' 9th, '09:

Standing on the edge of that morning,
Scent of us
and morning glory.
There's still hair on your pillow
and my lips are red.

The foundation of love is uncracked
and we're standing on the rooftop.
There are no planes in this sunny sky.
Ash won't cloud the streets
and heroes won't be made.

The collision is our skin
and the explosion is my organs
The sun will shine on the following
Tuesday morning.

Our hands wrap around the pole
in the underground light[rail]
As we go from
0 to 60

We hold on tighter, and
my mouth meets the sun.

pink paint

There’s probably something wrong with your vision,
but to me, there’s just a star in your eye.
There’s a certain chance that your smile’s crooked,
but it’s my only constellation in the sky.

I know I’m probably something horrible,
But you’ve become far too adorable,
And I’m finally feeling enjoyable.

There seems to be something about the way you say goodbye,
But to me, it feels like sixth grade is in the air.
There’s probably something about your hair I don’t know,
But hey, at least it’s everywhere.

I understand I’m probably something terrible,
But you just look like an angel,
And I’m starting to feel incredible.

This pink paint I bought is blinding my visibility,
Destroying the only possibility
Of me finally being free,
But that’s fine with me, for now.

There’s probably something funny about your nose,
But it looks to me like it’d fit perfectly with mine.
There’s probably something wrong with the way we're going,
But I like to think that happens by design.

It’s clear, I’m getting to be unbearable,
But all I care about is that you are irresistible,
And today, I feel invincible.

spoon bridge falling

End of semester stress has left me with little time and even smaller motivation to do any writing lately- fortunately, I have a long, long list of old pieces I can continue to share as the semester is winding up. Written in August of this year:

I open up my fuzzy eyes,

Could she still be mine?

This girl's dreams are coming down,

burning on the summer skyline.

Could she still be mine?

Her endless horizon's still calling,

burning on the summer skyline.

These ducks are flying on over.

Her endless horizon's still calling,

while we store away our nightly sighs.

These ducks are flying on over

as the water and the cherry collides.

While we store away our nightly cries,

this girl's dreams are coming down.

As the water and the cherry collides,

I open up my fuzzy eyes.

Kingdom of Quarantine

The tired knight leads his cavalry
And tells the queen that he has a fever.
He rides his grey horse in agony,
Can’t you see how badly he needs her?
Then she took his helmet off,
And touched her hand to his burning face.
Suddenly, he started to softly cough,
And her servants saw him to the right place.
They threw him in the dungeon cell,
With a wooden sign that reads “Quarantine”.
And as the leaves outside abruptly fell,
He sat staring at his hands; never made a scene.
The cat sized rats start chewing his armor,
The silver locusts are plaguing his heart.
Meanwhile, the queen throws her crown into the harbor,
And the men’s horses are torn apart.
Until finally, ripe with age and short on time,
his cell began to fill with tears and laughter.
For his cough was phony and his face was always fine,
It was only the queen’s soft touch that he was after.