I saw you perched on the chair
looking down on the floor as a man
towards his doom
on a Tuesday afternoon.
And with eyes ablaze
with thoughts so wild
that the grass would stop -- stare
and wait-- to see how death
could build a spectacle, the smolder of a boy
with a voice harsh enough
to pierce the silence of a dormant god.
He stared, and lived, as do the clouds:
passive and filled with life;
life that comes and floods the plains of old
and kill the fisherman that walks the waves
of watered time.