Smooth spheres laced onto gold wire,
Entangled with evangelical intersects.
Frozen fluids of all colors,
Each and expenditure,
Greet the groves of the man’s tentacle.
The seams of the surgeon’s pocket.
Abandoned into the abyss of cloth.
No longer sanctioned by seeing glass,
But belonging to the murkiness of midnight.
These diminutive delinquents,
Prestigious enough to evade death’s demeanor.
He wore a black brim,
Callous as the contemplated thoughts in his head.
Not much unlike the glum green gown,
Worn weary by his toddler,
As she sunk into the deep seas.
Heavy with hospital smells,
Fatigued by the festering of time.
The father’s treasure chest tapped,
Unoccupied, unfilled, uninhabited.
But his heart was harmonious with intention,
Though this morbid man was no hero.