I stand tall, here to mourn the slain.
I stand on the very balls of my feet,
hoping to tip over and lay adjacent to this under-rotted corpse.
I stand here today, singing grace to my purged vessel below me.
I’m ready to kiss goodbye the man who dreamed of yesterday,
pomegranate-stained palms and never smelled colors.
I got what I had wished for,
For I will never breathe in the magenta off Papa’s peonies.
For I will never breathe in the woody morning dew scent,
the number seven oozed.
For I will never taste the sterling sweet yet tooth-aching crunch
number five always gave me.
For I will never cradle the smell of Mother’s dreadful dinners,
never releasing my embrace until dawn.
For I will never hear the waterful whispers 6 spoke,
for 6 is a true gem, a being who holds sincerity and wisdom.
For I will never taste the mouth-watering azul blue
that left an aftertaste of savory salt that took 2 hours to rid of.
I thank this witless man for his bravery towards the ordinary.
Let us mourn my boyish innocence, and shed light on my conniving
consciousness that steered my boat down the wrong path of life.
I am now a normal man with simple senses.
