Here is it
Another quiet march of words
I bring no rhymes,
no fragrant tragedies seasoned to fable

The teacher speaks
and walks up and down the narrow aisle
All eyes upon him linger
All but those frozen on text
as if lost within it
Some somewhere nowhere
Some then
left right, left right
dance
One line, one line more

and so far away I lurk
So hollow this echoing of being.
I lay
a shell drained of warmth
In a deep, dim cavern

and it is it

What more could be said without I
ripping and shredding my skin to waste
Still may not stir
those angry animals beneath
Still I may twist and shrink
Naked and full and, oh, so, so lone

But the teacher speaks on
and I feel the weightlessness
of all the faces of which I am one
Pressing down and down

and write and write I might
Skin upon skin of an undying hum
But anyone can do that
Thousand men before me bled
What fiery pearl I, moulded from dust and
their dry, abandoned ash

but lone, but lone is lone
however it may sing
However we may—
In this little, little world
tossed, left right, left right

It was as simple as
turning off a light, or
crushing a bug.
He realized early
that reality had
a brutal side;
band aids didn't
stick to his heart
so he checked out;
he disassociated with
the scenery around him,
and created a kinder
world, with no
brutality or cruelty.

And then one day
he built a
sailboat made of
cardboard and silk,
and just sailed away.
There were no
shadows as he
smiled at the
putrid, bright sun.