Starfish Prime with a Slice of Lime

From nineteen-eighty-five to twenty-fucking-twenty
he drowned many sorrows painting a single memory
he focused double-vision to etch with earnest precision
he spurned the world only to preserve her existence
he listened to her voicemail and he couldn’t delete her
he read the old letters and said he never felt better
he heard a door slam down the hollow brick hall
he peeked through curtains and he lay on the floor
he rocked and he rolled and he wailed and he flailed
he ate his own word salad with bittersweet dressing
he held a staring contest with his own mirror image
and he won.

Thirty five still alive despite his lack of course or remorse
he downed every glass placed within reach and more
he regretted every decision made by internal schism
he pulled it together and he built an edifice to contrition
he piled it higher until his confusion covered the sun
he wrote about her until his hands were cramping numb
he ripped the page as he tried to convey a profound depth
he overplayed his hand and he understated his intent
he overstayed his welcome and he assimilated his regret
he listened for secret messages and he crafted his lament
he deciphered her words and he found a hidden string
he considered himself mundane and despised anything
he had created.

From nineteen-eighty-five to twenty-fucking-twenty
he knows almost nothing and yet he considers it plenty
he may do a dance for the rain and yet rave at the hail
he might ask to be raised only to flinch from the nails
he may search for miracles yet be met with damnation
he might aim for significance yet be content with salvation
he may resolve to survive, to rise, to praise, and to write
he might resign to expire, to sink, to curse, and to ignite
he may be nothing more and he may be something less
he might become someone somewhere and be no-one else
he may arrive before his time and leave before he is done
he might embark past his prime and amount to a zero-sum
or maybe
he will do none of the above.