He slithered along our canal,

To screams “T’ward the light!”

Scuffles ensued. They tried to corral

As arms rowed, with all their might.

At tunnel’s end, on knees he crawled

And balked, at the gate to the realm.

Without map, and head against the wall

He’d lost his chance to take the helm.

He’d carved a life that fell ‘to a pattern.

One famously infamous, with peculiarities.

His world of strife, cloaked in high end fashion.

Artsy. Like no other’s self-conceit.

I was a babe in the womb,

To a world of blackened sea.

I began to lose myself—like him.

And the world grew blind to me!

And so we split.

And split again.

I fled his 'neurotic pathways’. Out of orbit.

Untouched by his infectious 'pain-demic'

His soul laid bare, below the scribe’s hand.

But in a ‘bang!’ Found its way to the Lord.

Chest of bones to heaven, but also to land.

His sunken flesh now cradles his hoard.

“And here lies Gluteus Maximus.

This Butt-Head, head-butted Earth’s mass of rock-moss.

Waged war, with the simple and hardiest folk.

And whose anger, we dared not evoke.

He was short in stature and temper.

With morals bound to his mother.

Lacked zeal and heart to venture,

And shunned his pitiful brother."

If birth is right and death is wrong

And in outstretched caskets we splay,

In life we don’t always sing the same song.

But in time, we will find our own way.