The intangible cord of words

That dropped from your broken tongue

Like suicidal gumdrops,

Punctured my bones

With the never-again portrait of

What you have become.

A man?

A dandelion-wish-child with

Bloodied infant hands?

Hands that twist my veins to glass

Under the play structure of

Our ruination of youth.

What have you become?

Caught dreaming of jaded moons

Washed upon silken marble sands.

Oh. Those. Hands…

Hands that rust my eyes to

Dusty crimson shells.

They were children’s hands.

The hands of a man never

Carved the poetry of my pain

Quite like you can.