Is there a greater manifestation of summer than
laughing and singing late into the night to fall asleep
under the stars with dust and leaves
tangled in your hair and the memory of
soft lips on your collar bones and the crook of
your neck because if there is
I would need undoubteable irrefutable proof.

He was young and wild and beautiful,
a match that would burn itself out to ignite the world.

He was a pretty boy,
but with scratched knees and ****** knuckles,
a testament to the truth that beauty is pain.

He is a warrior without a war,
a rebel without a cause,
a king without a crown,
and an angel without wings.

He is flickering, fading.

Paradox.

Enigma.

"Do no harm," he says. "No more harm."
But his hands are balled into fists
And the world is burning, burning, burning
As I try to capture human nature
With merely a pen and paper

h.f.m.