Richard Cory

a richard cory can make a home in us no man is an island to life and death and everything in between now and then we are driven to the edge the office, the school, the parish everywhere a Cory haunts with the blood of his thoughts flowers shrivel in the dungeon of his depression tragedies are hatched in the cold nest of humanity the face curves a mask to help the real selves live the mouth plays traunt to create a mirage a man walks a smile with ghosts feasting on his miles there they patiently wait for the real catch of his traps a friend laid himself on the tracks and a train tore through him regrets like a steam engine rumble through the years they look for answers behind the shroud Cory had sewn stringing, longing for the buttons he never got all his days we are tortoises - as a reptile readied to have him whole feet, head, legs, entrails, blood and all - in the darkness of our shells the hassle of life clouds life like a calm river starving crocodiles lurk we cant even see whether it is their tails or heads slashing, lashing, splashing their way to us raining a slush of hot blooded foamy death