He, once loved and revered,
possesses now a tranquil venom.
Poison in his veins was once his blood.
His heart no longer desires
the lonesome job of beating;
in conflict with himself
his body no longer wants life.
Yet he,
the master, the owner,
the righteous herald of his own existence,
loves only again what is lost.
his bones, no longer tentpoles
eat and scrape their way
out of their tomb.
Inside he wants freedom.
Inside he loathes disparity.
Outside he is no longer a smirk
in the corner of a
photograph snapped on
a night fueled by liquor and
fog of drunk smoke-
no longer lover of she.
His hands tremble for a lighter
and waste to ash in the air.
The buildings he once called home
crumble and topple
as his stasis endures.