1The intangible cord of words
That dropped from your broken tongue
Like suicidal gumdrops,
Punctured my bones
With the never-again portrait of
What you have become.
A man?
A dandelion-wish-child with
Bloodied infant hands?
Hands that twist my veins to glass
Under the play structure of
Our ruination of youth.
What have you become?
Caught dreaming of jaded moons
Washed upon silken marble sands.
Oh. Those. Hands…
Hands that rust my eyes to
Dusty crimson shells.
They were children's hands.
The hands of a man never
Carved the poetry of my pain
Quite like you can.