Holding, tightly, to his glad-to-be-alives,
Managing, rightly, his ability to thrive,
Draining unsightly veins that will survive,
Preserving gratitude with his own formaldehyde.
He’s a walking, talking you-can’t-bring-me-down,
With a stitched-on, smile-glued face without a frown,
Whose sadness was murdered by a frozen-grinned clown
And resting in a mausoleum, deeply underground.
Riveted, frozen stiff to see-the-good-insteads,
Unlimited, boundless pushing nightmares from his head,
Inhibiting, halting hate that’s tethered by a thread,
Resurrecting optimism like the zombified-undead.
He’ll kick you, slap you with his I-won’t-stoop-so-lows,
Casting showers of forgiveness, not dark shadows,
And abandon unkind thoughts, to rot and decompose,
Allowing scavengers to feast, tearing into them like crows.