poor little rich boy

HE WHO LAUGHS LAST DIES FIRST.

                    ( let’s face it. no one likes someone without a                               sense of humor!!! might as well get rid of them,

There’s tragedy all around us and there’s no exception in Sadahiko Anzu–a dishonest but earnest boy nonetheless. A friend for all that he’s worth among dust and dandelion seeds cloying over clover-clipped graves–someone who fits scenery as if Rembrandt painted his visage himself. The inevitable end is infinitely cruel to corpses and hollow husks in hallow graves–the twisted mouths and rotten teeth, the silence seeping from slit throats far fearsome than any threat we face today. Nevertheless, I hope he ascertains some sense of peace impossible to salvage from scrapyards. I hope the wasps whisper silent still, I hope you sleep in hoary heather bed. I hope he never nears homeroom again. 

You were good–to me, even when you th-thought I was a ghost.

                 ... ... ... ... ... ... 

                 [stalwart kindness, seeping through rotted ruins of a callous corpse. a sigh, chattered through heavy teeth, like the universe pressing itself out from real not real lungs. he swallows; goes through the motions but he doesn’t cry. an almost tangible idea clears it’s throat. it’s not a stutter. but it’s heard, anyways, an implication of abashedness rather than an impediment.]