Metabolism slows like the greying of angels
lining his doorstep. Painting wisdom in watercolored
therapy, the willows embrace his sullen sockets,
sunken to empath remnants and mistaken
mutterings. Parted lips and lilac kiss smear
their wiles about his chin. Doubly around his molten
halo, impressionistic veneers funnel
out to silence. The panes around him falter
with his hips, cold and dripping with lunar eclipse,
immune to the emblazoned twine interlocking
his forearms as he fades into the mattress.
Binding and non-binding alike, he contracts
to the tempo of headstones. Given a blade,
given a plot, given the lurid smirks of sunlight
mid-morning, he weaves melodies over Braille,
grating in time to batted bases.