The
paper man rustled, crinkled his arms,
Awoke.
Yellowed with age and
coffee stains,
He croaked
A sigh, and with a flutter, floated above a clutter
Of
notesIvory-hued and rumpled. He rounded a crumple -
Somebody'd wrote
A sign: "Romantic Lane" - over a trail of guilt and pain
That wound
To other
paper men. But that was then.
He assumed.
And, trudging now, he ambled in -
yellowed voice, tattered skin,
BreathingA wrinkled crease to the marker
Manning
the tattooist's parlour,
Easing
His lined back upon a wooden chair,
Noting the
irony embellished there,
Waiting.
WaitingHe felt the pencil digging in,
Breaking bone and flesh and skin,
Writing
Writing And then it was gone. He flexed,
His torso, scribbled with lines, bedecked
Charcoal black.
He mumbled a muttered thanks,
And, quavering frailly into the ranks,
He went back
And never woke up again.