I saw the pain in his eyes
A long story written with family ties
The cry for help
A disguised contempt

Like a poisonous suicide attempt
Destined to have met
Red-flags, flower petals
And solitary cement
In hopes of catching
The audiences’ attention
Rather than offer mind
To his impervious reflections.

I heard his voice quiver and cracking
As if he were at the height of puberty
As if he were lashing
Like broken abused violins scratching

At the hands between

Innocence, misery,
Comfort and history.

I see he cut his hair short
Looking to resort a kind of support
And I know thinning disappeared from his mind.
He keeps picking up branches
Setting them in lines,
And at the core he finds
There was once upon a time
When thumbs were sucked
And he lied on mommy’s bosom
Believing it created luck
Maturity questioning,
Is there a thing as such?

The growing beast of realization
Of not having nothing is settling in
And I watch
His globe spin
His demons and angels wrestling
He investigates:
Does the past have wings?
Can I allow others to pull my puppet strings
And still wind up King?

Which way til
The pendulum
Which way til
The pendulum




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