His hair greasy as the forgotten twilight that has collapsed and melted
His voice grates; a crumpled velvet baton in the unceasing wind.
His anguish speaks of lonesome visitors that come to him
When he has thrown away his repugnant weeds of lily
And returned to the consummate plastic of the empty mug.
His world is limited to gnarled wrinkles that harden in their crevices.
He rejects them now that he can no longer return from the blinding glare
Of the relentless grey when the dawn freezes tantalizingly.
His reflection--a toucan with a beak of midnight, accusing eyes,
And a wing of compressed oil slowly draining from him
As he glances askance at his blunt and shimmering talons.
Yet he soars through his life growing more vile each day,
Never pausing to tilt his eyes to glimpse the trail of cantankerous sin
He leaves, as he is blind to the searing, sharp armor he rips from himself.
He is you, and you are me, and I fade back into the possessive marshes,
Always searching for you, but never stretching out a wispy tendril to intervene.
Yet I have ventured forth today to whisper in your bulbous, thorny ear,
This piece won an Honorable Mention in the 2014 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.