Poetry: Young Man

Young man lives in such poverty each breath he endures
Without an apprehension
Deficiency of angst
His bed sheets immersed in the blood
I know he sees
The Virgin Mary lies on his bed stand,
Gaping, wide eyed, Mary.
Bloody Mary, he utters to himself,
6a.m. His morning train to work,
Loud music he plays to drain out of the guilt he holds
The strangers passing by seem well acquainted with his folly
Enthralled in a woman, across the aisle
Young man is distracted,
Fingers full of rings, an exhibitionist of a sort, perhaps
Shoe laces tied in perfect knots
Creating obscure scenarios in his head he ponders,
Chopping the saloons with a hatchet
Burning her bra on a pedestal
Yet timid
Very timid
Her eyes not wavering from the soles of the rusted brown shoes, she wore
But then again, after all he is just a young man
Young man, heart of sulfur
The fiber is absent of thermo-plasticity
His back varnished in cuts
Bruised inner thighs, merely on the surface
Young man, owns a new car
The smell of his newly bought car is potent,
Without the mileage it dwells in the garage
The time will come when his vehicle will rust,
Consequent to several uses,
The blood still on his sheets
Virgin Mary still on the bedside table
Cuts still masking his back
Bruises on his inner thigh
Young man currently, sulfur heart
Hindered, perhaps but flawlessly veiled
Wounded young woman
Neglected.


(Artist: Egon Schielle)