Danger, Danger

vii.

I knew the misfortune that made his morals collapse was nothing short of catastrophic,

but the catastrophe has made him an assassin

of human sanity

                        and that is what tears me apart.

This boy was something beautiful

and it only frightens me how much

an annihilation

can mutilate

the pure-intentioned.

This boy used to be the Empire State,

looking upon his treasured city that mirrored the stars

and the lights would fill his eyes.

A mere gaze lock with this boy would bring electricity to your veins,

and you became invincible.

He was the boy who saw everyone's need to be

c r u c i a l

to this world, 

so he turned phrases into pathways to guide people out of their own

Personal Hells,

and he did it with

an elegance,

so very delicately, 

that you thought for a moment that he was the blinded fawn

in the lights, 

not you. 

Now his words are suffocating smoke

and his body is a wasteland.

His breath is heated by doom;

and what used to be so eloquent,

was now done astringently.

When he speaks he hits all of what makes your heart beat, 

he crashes your train of thought 

and watches the explosion take out everything inside of you, 

until you are only a

r  e  m  n  a  n  t

of a memory

that no one takes the time to remember. 

It seems that I am the only person who dares 

to look back at the boy 

after he ransacks

you,

steals away

all of what makes a person's sanity

function

from you. 

It's hard to believe

that I 

                        (me, of all people in this world)

am the only one

who sees that he is only collecting these parts

to replace his own.

But nothing seems to fit

(correctly).

There is not a train for his thoughts 

that he can steal

that won't guide him through his 

abstract memories

and make him relive the pain 

        over

                        and 

                 over

       and 

                       over 

again and again. 

I am the only one who cares to see

where he is now. 

No longer standing upon stately buildings,

but is instead is cut to crimson ribbons

in a ditch that is filling up with water

from the constant

t o r r e n t i a l

rain. 

He lays in there

with a hammer grasped tightly in his 

lacerated hands

with the shards of his 

mirrored city

spread about him 

like a haze

mirroring the darkening sky. 

        (He shattered every mirror that showed what he was

                                                                        and what he is now).