Shooterman, Speak Again

The ripples in his mind would not straighten
No amount of time nor pleasure he wished to have had could have fixed it
But… could we have asked for anything more


When he breaks a bone can anyone hear it?
If all alone with not even sight can anyone bear it?
My life is not empty and blank, but can he still hold it?
Burning alive is he at the stake, and yet he still buries it

A lie that makes him truth
A vision that makes him no longer you
A fist that breaks through the iron gate
A life that’s not so in vain

Set fire to the eyes
Bring pain with no knife
Kill if only to live
live if only to forgive
When nothing has happened
and nothing will give
A mind won’t hold up
It doesn’t exist


He could not hold onto what he had
But if at this point at all in his so called life
where had he walked


Purged is the words on his paper
Faded faces of machines with no names
Had he been there to begin with?
Had his existence meant anything to the dogs with lighted faces?

Nothing felt worthwhile to the man of pure blank
A cesspool full of toy guns could not quell his unspeakable madness
A field of green fabric just was never his thing
Walking away is the hands of melted plastic and quilted threads


When will the green truly be green?
This is all he has when he walks to his file
Filtered back in with the rest of them


Created by nothing and living through none
Moving still are the giants of grey
Turned are their eyes
Forgotten is their breath


Is this world just a book or extension
Can he be among the tempered steel?
Or is he just yarn?

The rest is not known
Nor is it forgotten