he was killed, i can promise you that
not that it meant a ******* thing
his hands were solid, calloused from everytime
he tried to set himself on fire
selfish immolation, no cause
no contribution, he wasnt
great
         full, for his feet
which stood on souls
because his iron skin
curled into steel fists
radiated power, white hot steam
creepily peeking out of the furnace

when he finally moved, carelessly
flailing around,
a steer in an antique mall
furnished with heirlooms
that were stolen,
that we weeped over for years,
he didnt care
                       fully pour himself a glass
to sooth his aching, his self infliction
he feared we, he did fear
unwittingly filling his glass with
water, belly full, poisoned
with clarity, we poured out his whiskey,
he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us
poisoned with clarity
his glass looked transparent,
reflected like a mirror
poisoned with clarity
he was so empty