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Friday, May 10, 2013

They Cured Him, Sy Roth

Featherdown comforter, coat of red cilia,
saw him through cold and death.
Sere freckled blanket fried by the sun,
buffeted by frigid winds
the Empire State Building could not crack,
finally Benedict Arnolded him.
Caught him unawares.
Betrayed him.

Mirrors were his friend.
Reflected his red hair well even when it turned gray.
The smile, chiseled fixture, froze in his fool’s paradise.
His arms wrapped about his head in sweeping strokes,
combed it back revealing a broad, crenelated brow
etched with glimmers of hope.

They said that they could cure him.
Afterwards, the mirror refused the sham.
Smileless foe stared back,
lip corner turned down in a perpetual snarl,
eye nerve snicked obstinately open,
stream of tears, a steady Quasimodo reminder,
flowed north to his brain.

They did cure him,
of his lust for life.
Madness swallowed him

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