The Son of J. Alfred


How soon convicted,
How soon,
Though he is so rarely right.

Mirrored faces relay little
The contours of his smile
Reflect back, brittle.

No thing
But time
No room
For good.

Time on his hands,
His hands on himself,
Losing grip.

Unsuited to buy a suit
By both stature and desires
High academic;
High, mostly.

Trickle down society
With economies for show
There is enough here for comfort,
No heed for the need to grow.

He wanders to the sea and cries,
“There’s nowhere left for me!”
He comes and goes
The embodied love song
Echoing more quietly
With every step.

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