Arying

He was a fasting feasting readying sort of folk
eating a freezing popsicle sitting on an iceclicle in reverse
trying mourning his random dying wishes aside
he wonders if the lighting striking his heart
is as real as this cave hiding him apart
from those burning people telling him to fly
not you, not her, not this word defining you inside
but those others asking for his lying mouth to shine
not you, never you sort of confusing me from afar
but them cleary stating: you’ll never get her to your side