The Child, The Old Man, and The Lunatic – A Poem


The Child, The Old Man, and The Lunatic

Soaked in forgetfulness I am done
with art
its flavor turned to mutilated ash
and the taste of its bones
too much like tyranny.

I wish I could say this was a poem
or a confession
but what would I know of these matters
they are too close to the heart
the soul
or the mind
for me to understand.

There is The Abandoned Child
with his shoes
kicking dirt in the wind
harboring silence and death
in his lofty wings
whose weight pins him to the

In the years that have yet to pass
The Old Man
may ask for the heart of a lion
still beating and fresh with blood
to be brought to him
upon my hand
but my only answer will be a proclamation of
a want of self-indulgence
a need to traverse
the meandering line between
and corruption.

Look to me you cities on the fair hill
decorated and decadent and swimming in
a dress two sizes
too large
and find yourselves
starving as much as I
as much as we

but this is all too much like
a frailty bordering on the front steps
of The Lunatics House
asking if there is room for the night
and for the days
to follow.


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