Poezja

What it was? Unthinkable: 
he had become inaudible 
to himself. 
Intramurality in defiance? 
or falling from perfectibility? 
 
The terrible stench; 
and toxic fumes rising from decaying passions. 
The flesh middle age, blocked arteries 
fear of schizophrenia? 
 
Scion of royalty clapping for wheels, 
shine and color 
hanging by a thread of hate. 
 
This was life without a hero. 
Pacers-by caring for posters only 
Whisking the sounds away. 
 
Many in the one 
nostalgia of shapes.