by Marc Darnell
The day will come when I will tire of those
who do not feel, and I will rise into
the sky of sores, embracing kin— embattled
birds, wings now only skin from constant
tests of quill on earth. When will I crack
these stone faces that cycle through my years,
saying I'm too sensitive, agape,
weak to ricochet all casual barbs?
Let me freeze for all of you, a portion
dead— a walking manly husk, virile,
but sterile of emotions, heart encased,
muffed, for there's no flight for me today—
still a cowardly mess thus marked by you,
but braver than men shrugging off their hearts
