Sean

He flew into
A freight train
To feel himself
Lose his body.

Twenty-three,
Idealistic,
Forgetful of the future:

He soared.
A million pieces
Of his skin
Caught up in the wind,
Torn against the sun,

Braving nonexistence.

We knew.
We must have known.
He told us a million times
in cryptic status reports:
120 symbols pressed
Into the shape of a warning.

Quoting Lennon songs:
His troubles seemed so far away
He had to jump and catch them.

And we have them now:
Each quotation and
Rambling assortment of words.
We have them
To stretch across a thousand devices;
Stare at in the night.
Technology preserving
Some breath of his life.
A statue behind flat glass
For us to gander at
When convenience would bid
Us to mourn for him.

© Shea Depmore
Steal money.. not words.

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One thought on “Sean

  1. Pingback: Victoria « Jargon

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