He stands alone and speaks of light,
memories and the boy who cried murder.
Under the moon, no purpose, no solution but
the limbs that etch against the sky
as if looking for a way to join the universe.
He stands alone, there, in a nostalgia of novelty,
speaking riddles into the sky and a
distance too far gone.
Drenched in blood and mementos of death
for a defeated city.
He stands alone amid-st the voices. Personas leaking
into his ears, triggering those memories
of the boy who pronounced the dead and buried the opulent.
Reeking of falsities and past in the eyes of the gold child
in a crown of pure onyx ashes.
