a man with a mind of his own has run away,
one flowing purely on adrenaline
and blood red from being let every day on dot
(for the safety of the others, you know. to halt the spread of infection); “bleeding heart, or artist?” pick your poison.
he has the mouths to feed of a species
all alike but breathing different air,
as he prefers
slow death,
by method of ocean and solvent,
and would like to carry off on waves
come any time given to sleep.

it starts at birth and sprouts come spring,
or decays come winter if left unattended.
for what anxiety breeds itself in the marrow of the young?
stature small and bones more plentiful, I guess.
a head fallen off of shoulders,
left to be fed by whatever walks in,
biological,
mechanical,
theatrical,
dead.
and behind the eyes,
burrowed,
is an attic,
pieces of nostalgia piled up,
stitching selves together quietly come night
in idealized scenarios to make up for
past lives known of, but never seen face to face.
one with open mind lives many lives,
he just happens to make them up as he goes along,
or she for that matter,
and forgets them come night, when children sleep.
the animal on prey speaks.
he shouldn’t count the feathers of the bird
plucked off by predator natura,
HE’LL GASP FOR AIR! (this in society still addressing human as, he)
DISILLUSIONED!
ALONE!
what is this myth of youth? What shield around
them benefits full scale as open window?
salted air? the beauty of earth stands admired
near seconds,
since we’ve taught them just barely to care.
IT’S NOT FULL SCALE REALITY, THEY SHOULDN'T BE THROWN
into the fictitious to be made fraid,
that’s where they reside at night in less pleasant dreams.

while trapped in themselves you find where they reside at night
in those less pleasant dreams and the walls they build themselves.
fields cold, but comfortable,
refreshed, salted and
sweetened by wheat,
yet alone,
no beasts to be seen
for any beasts,
would be another man.