pavement cracks under his feet
when he walks.
smoke falls from his hair
when he moves.
his hands are made of stone
his veins are dripping mud
his eyes are black and blown.
he's a walking black hole
******* all the light of the world in
breathing in warmth and fire
breathing out dust and ashes.
he's still young in the crinkles by his smiling eyes
in the high pitch of his screams
in the smallest curls of his hair.
he's aged in the purple under his eyes
in the tilt of his disappointed mouth
in the rough tips of his fingers
in the weight of his stone-carved bones.
he is many things
and looks like so many more
he is big
and he is beautiful
and the earth cracks under
and the flowers die in his wake.
he swears he's bathed in darkness
but still made of sun.
this is literally about the person you're thinking this is about.
— The End —