My princes,
My boyhood friends,
Do you still remember the sun sickness in the pit of our empty stomachs?
The frozen vegetables cooling our wounds,
while we watched the final summer sunsets
outline our tree house kingdoms shadowing
bruised hips with a kiss of the headache cool water
fountain bubbling across our squinting.
The crown now pulls stunning violence across my eyelids,
and the headmaster rips my palms
pouring diamonds into the orchestra pit
where a first chair violinist evaporates in the beams of the limelight.
As curtains break, as crowds sigh,
an untied burning upwards smolders
roofs of an empty home against the midnight sky
where blood stuck hair and half closed eyes
tilt and wonder why there was no warning.
A wound will always seem to find you,
an answer is coming,
like a voice calling from home,
when your feeling so far away.