......the paradox was not a mysterious precious singular reason,
     As he breathed life into
His own lungs,
For daily he seemed to live like this,
The wound he wore on his chest
Like a reaper of life,
    A blood wound so thirsty
Its vampiric torture on those
Closest was not life but an
Embellished form of whimpers
Not some courageous
Yell to justified glory,
    It frustration was at
A poem or some form of
A form that gave it's bitter
   Deliverance grace
So that all might hear
Such a didsain with
Fanciful words more for word's
Sake, the ears silken flattery,
    The mundane use of glorified
Flutter,
  He wrote the weak
And a theasurus well thought
Made it strong,
    As it was read,
The mundane echoed
From an empty seat,
An empty word
From a cup once full.....