He Who Fauceted Down From Recontemplating Happiness

He drips down
my ceiling; his
oozing bones,
eyes, limbs and
matted hair,
heaping on
my floor,
anatomy
thawed into
seconds, fusing
into the chaos
of an expectant
universe.

Outside my
door, wishes glued
to butterflies
die. Dew
travelling on
sun baked
lines knock
themselves dry.
Silence walks
through the
open door, looks
at him heaped
into eternity;
and stitches
himself in the
fabric of who
we had failed
to become.