Poetica Obscura
He was the young star reflected from concrete
His father’s son all right, all he knew was wrong
But if looking to his right all he saw were whip-lashed whippersnappers trying to catch freedom in the wind would it really be logical to wear a seatbelt?
No one in this world knew how he felt because he still spoke the language of angels but presented himself with the posture of D-Boys because the reality was, he himself did not know the difference
So he watched
And he learned the slang of street pharmaceuticals before he could read the sign across the street from his house
Learned the taste of tears from the cost of health insurance before he could comprehend that life was not promised
And he is the best of us
He is the us we left behind trying to find a place in this world where black and white count as colors
Where counting dollars becomes synonymous with counting blessings
Where we kill to counteract how monotonous we find our settings
And we have been so damaged ourselves that there is no one to hold his hand and protect his innocence
So he learns to look left on his own
Cross the street on his own
Hold his own
Pay his own….rent
Break his own….promises
Fit in perfectly
Plagued by the memory of the moments he stood out and alone
