Under the vivid, rose colored scars
lies a person. One not too far
but very distant. He binds himself so.
Emotional threads have stolen his soul.
He bleeds. He seeds his satiric weeds.
He plants them in the mulch of carnivorous poachers.
He hands you a blade. Be gentle young one.
He longs to feel pain, not die a young son.
His skin is lacking pigment, restrained to his bed rest.
His mind is but a figment, restrained to his headrest.
His spices are sweet and his sweets are sour.
His bittersweet cowardice and unsettling power
invades the mind.

Tell me, do you think?
Freely I suppose.
Your mind did not blink.

He beats a rhythm without a heart, and in this
he meets a prism without a doubt. Locked inside
is a girl not far apart. His lust for lasting love is lost
and his fetish for fun fiddled nights is tossed aside.

He died years ago, his pride was stolen.
But his memory lives on in those who hold him.