What it was?
Unthinkable: he had become inaudible to himself.
Intramurality in defiance? or falling from perfectibility?
The terrible stench; and toxic fumes rising from decaying passions.
The flesh middle age, blocked arteries fear of schizophrenia?
Scion of royalty clapping for wheels,
shine and color hanging by a thread of hate.
This was life without a hero.
Pacers-by caring for posters only
Whisking the sounds away.
Many in the one nostalgia of shapes.
