The first thing that you notice is his eyes
that burn with glimm’ring fire in the light
And shade themselves in eyeliner disguise
mascaraed flames, reminders of the night
That twines itself through long and lanky hair
unkempt and black and brushing shoulder tips
One covered by a T-shirt, one left bare
and rent with scars of razor-bladed quips
And scars swish through his pale and tender wrists
and cheekbones show through gaunt and shadowed skin
And talons black his fingers sport, like cysts
upon his tapered hand, which tends to spin
When he gesticulates or speaks or writes
about his own Ophelia, tiny thing
He draws in velvet books on sleepless nights
and thinks on when he feels the razor’s sting
They stare at him and laugh as they go by
torment him, try to make him crack a grin
They cannot understand that souls can die
and rot, and flake, and shed their mortal skin
Who is he but a metaphor for strife –
A Danish prince of death, a corpse of life?