On shaved grass.
He lies.
Under a bleached sun.
Flicking pages like wasps.
The dullness of late summer,
tires and taunts hope.
In this man-child.
Waiting for the change,
of turned leaves.
To carpet the past,
and brown the black.
The wish of fallen kings.
The crave,
of memory loss.
But the wind will blow.
Revealing scratched maps.
Salting the sores
of betrayal.
To bleed him,
redundant.
