He lost himself to a repressed rage
that seemed so sedative to God’s angels
who by now be subdued in hell. Crushers of dreams who
never stood a single chance on the pivots
of his tediously self-inflicted hardcore vanity.
His fists making small talk with the plywall
and shards of glass from the kitchen
were of no use to halting any tumultuous
psychotic lightning bolt that crossed his eyes
and brushed his nose until depositions the
death of fixations shrinking his insides
thinning the little boy spirit that was within and out the living room.
It was love that never aired a thought
so pure as to provide the calm that was needed
for his mansion of mantras. It was a four-letter word uttered
by one gender and spelled like a first name still so pristine.
And it would pass, through time and
scissors of loss cutting across the facticity
of his descent into the core of pervasions somewhere by route 132.
Nothing ever pertains to a teddy bear
the dilemma between hugging
and grief.
So He moved on with his adieux, diligently, as told
by friends and foes, and more crippled than he could be.
She never eyed him in the same social milieu,
his fingers never flattened the marks of her skin
ever again. Though he remembers every act of perceptiō down
to its prevalence. A nostalgia always arrives
at the cusp of his awareness that her absence
is an endless torturous scream to which she no longer bears any answer.