Can I have my medicine?
The fist smashes through the cabinet,
Holding a blooded hand of normal.
As the mirror shatters,
And the hand insists,
Its life drip trailing across his choice.
He decides no.
He's ill. He's bloodied. He's lonely.
He's terminally free.
He stares into the glass as it warps away whole.
The blood pools and drains. And swirls.
A pantomime sworn in and sworn away.
Never again will he pill up for pantomime.
When the stage he rots on runs him by.
They bow and decay.
And he stands lifeless.
As the show rolls on.