A Wild Skull for Satin (A Boy Who Lived)

And here lies
the best of us;
end of all
the best of me, seppuku child.
Of 1980 and fairgrounds,
a once baby heart filled with jazz
now at threads end.

Full decades lived well
in honesty that cameras could never catch.
Beyond scars and rats
and bony jailbait
but never above,
never holier than darkest sin.

At rest now
from machines and noise,
from unwanted bully banshees
asleep and free,
bloody pulp no more.
A song to end brothers
Game Over...

©Steven Francis poems 2014