Author Information
Privy Prismatic
There was a terrific child who rolled himself in crystals
divulged from every splattered rock he'd discovered as a boy.
He was a kind of pretty but his erie calm and stoics
kept his looks so pasted with ambivalance ordained.
He wasn't cheap with parables, possessed a many words,
sought to straighten life's askew with poems or a song.
But had he not been overlooked in grandest of grand schemes,
he may have not become the humble charge and infantile.
He grew so fat with impotence and expectancy so far away,
and grew so thin through panicking at the very early sight of things.
So as he wants just nothing more than constant hands in hands,
he'll lap his blood presentably as every prism pierces.
The sun will crest above the hills and capture and engulf
his every bit of resplendent pause and awkward fits of shuffle.
And then on then and only then will his glaring light encompass
the empty lamps and frozen candles that might just care for warmth.
