The spark
Went out.
His eyes,
Two hollow lakes
Of black ink.
In them swimming
His demons,
Declaring that
They have
Won

I am your canvas,
Paint me with your colors of despair
Because I’m out on my own,
Setting little fires everywhere

i’m no outcast in these woods,
where the people who belong
are shunned,
permitted no entrance to what
is sacred
and preserved only to those
who understand what it
feels like to be
dismembered at the waist