“It’s a tragedy,”
They’d say, breath
Static and still.
“A bloody shame,”
They’d weep, no
Tang of iron
On the tongue, no
Sight of scarlet
In the depths
Of their creased palms.
“He will be missed,”
They’d state, no
Tears sludging
Out their eyes, no
Dribbles of snot
From their nose
As if my corpse
Fingers could never pluck
A single string
Of the heart.
He Who Wanders 