His guts swirl to the beat
of the marching band.

His hands are nothing
but earthquake rumbles
that he tries to control

and his veins turn into fault lines
pouring sea water onto his palms.

His name hangs on
the screen like a ticking
time bomb ready to explode
into bits—into tiny grains to spread
around the world.

Every step to the stage
is one minute closer to

another day coming to a close—
like an old book that needed
to be returned to the shelf.

Pearl crusted croissants moons
greet him for a consolation—
a congressional medal of honor
he’ll be proud of to hang on his body.

Sugar filled tears fall
like river—one tear at a time.

And finally…
            he can smile with ease…

There was no them and there was no stage;

it’s just the broken
air-conditioners’ noisy hums
that need to be fixed;

it’s just the annoying squeaking
chair that has been too old to be sat at.

It’s just an empty paper
whispering that
                                    he will die today…

His dreams still
                                                            hang on,

*but today…
                                    he is just another
                                    selfish prayer
                                    that God forgot
                                    to hear…