Meh

There are pinwheels in his shoulder blades,
ivory keys in his stomach as the "star-crossed" blaze in the cross-fades.
Old man graced with gold hands
and cold clamps 'round his wrists,
grins thick with bent lips
and he hits the red rims when he speaks.
His dreams of Genvieve leave fiends clean
but he's got that hook in his step
quiver in his reach
future falling out his back pockets,
Davy Crockett's in the walkway
and he knows he can't stop it,
can't take part in heart lockets
but he's got shards of soul in his forearms and
nothin's gonna break that.

So he walks.