Tiresome he choked Scuffling on the cold wood floor Waxed thoroughly, his eyes meets the cracks of another him An alternate view adjacent and new Conquering the present with its futuristic view Wounds appear, slapping, scrapping, and screeching He doesnβt want this life Itβs not his for the keeping Gliding across, fingers numb and broken His tears fall too loudly, rudely outspoken Another him gleaming and cunning Wraps his wrist with grips unreal Forcefully pulled, head first into another him Unwillingly christened, knees bandaged and bruised New, He stands up tall, forgetfully leaves behind The now scuffed, raw *****, cold, wood floor