Poor boy.
Born poor.
He listens in to voices that promise him more than
the seedy life of loss he has known.
He has suffered at the hands of others after bending himself to their will.
He wanders blithely if anything can yet be discovered among the empty days he
struggles to fill.
They tried to reason with him when they thought his demons were asleep.
They offered plans, gave him more pills and made promises they could never
hope to keep.
His anger raged, a pure white flame, one afternoon when the thin line snapped.
The cops broke down the door and quickly took aim when they realized he held
a knife behind his back.
“He stabbed me once,” his mother shrieked.
“He will surely stab again.”
As they carried out his lifeless form, one officer asked:
“Why weren't the knives kept hidden?”
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