He was some forsaken singer,
rhymes lost, dead ringer
for that ol’ road-weary trope
of the dying antelope
that wonders, spilling strong,
why no one can hear his song.

He was some wrought-iron castaway,
steel-tamed yet fit for flay,
just a fat ol’ fish, hook in lip,
‘tween the old man’s knees, ’bout to slip,
wondering how the water could be
so cold above his cobalt sea.

He was some shriveled, paper poet,
mildewed months, wrinkles to show it,
resolved to ink sparrows into the sky,
to prove that words with wings could fly —
he wondered, tongue poised on the stars,
if time would ever stitch his scars.