With a transfusion of passion
You have rewritten my epitaph
Altered my story from one anguished
To one of even angels will envy.
Now I find colour in long
Pale cheeks of my emaciated
Life, lusciousness in my lips
Formerly chapped, even cut
To my long unkempt beards
And music in my stammering soul.
People ask,
-How have his steps
Found their spring?
They wonder,
-His premature age lines
Where have they gone?
-They whisper among themselves,
He sings through his showers
With a dreadful voice unembarrassed,
Pomades his hair-broke head,
Dances with two left feet to his car
And wherever he finds a mirror
He stops in front of it a few long minutes
Checking himself from every angle.
Why does he matter to himself now?