“Not a Second”

There was Shakespeare on his tongue,

and a butterfly in his lungs.

Both made his dangerous.

Both rendered him unloved.

He was afraid

of what to say,

of what to feel.

It all got stuck in his throat,

a clump of paper and honey.

Nothing was easier to swallow.

Innocence was one thing,

but courage was another.

To pick up the sword,

to shout into the abyss.

He was new to living,

but he didn’t want to waste it.

The hilt was supple in his palm,

so were the words to that song.

The one in the back of his beautiful mind.

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