Your vest and socks now cling to you
like a second skin.
The bruises on your face the only story
you cannot manipulate.
Your mouth is a graveyard,
yellow tombstones tumbling over each other.
You the once loquacious philosopher, street guru
no longer speak for silence is refuge and
less prone to self embarrassment.
If you could be embarrassed.
Regiments of beer cans now protect you.
Their loyalty cannot be questioned unlike those you have
Where did it all go wrong? I never hear you say.
When was the move from the optimism of change
to the burdens of inertia, settling losses,
limiting collateral damage to the innocent.
But I must give you some credit father,
of all your failed convictions only one appears still true for you
suicide is selfish.