society’s child
deprived, then depraved
then departed
not much fanfare
just an unmarked grave
a torn rose
with a stemmed tide
representing the thorns of life
the young garden
with a flowered headstone
just a brick from the alley
where he slept
rest in pieces of heart
his worn cold from disuse
“love” not ever a word on his lips
but he mumbles much else
before departing,
deprived, then depraved
in restless prayer
to sleep through his poverty
which for him might be
the rest of his life.
—
© erin-cilberto, 2015