Wide-eyed boy,
with your flaxen strands and rosy cheeks.
Even in death,
I remember every detail.
Skinny, whimpering boy, theres nothing
to cry about now.
For in death, your ribs no longer
poke through your fragile,
cracked, snow-white skin.
Youll never feel that fist again.
In death, your bones will never creak
and crack,
sounding the echo of a tired life.
Your skin will never weep
rivers of red
onto the cold, dark ground beneath you.
Never again.
Blank, expressionless boy,
dont get up.
For in death,
you wont endure nights on
the hard, black seas of the city
or pick your broken body up
to wrestle through another
unforgiving day.
Poor, bleak boy,
what kind of world could you have known
to make your life
much sadder
than your death?
