For Chris

My heart flutters inside my chest like a blood red butterfly frantically trapped in a wire cage full of rage knowing its life span is short Houston, we have a problem, mission abort. Crush the butterfly in your trembling hand, blood soaked sand under your feet the secret you cannot dare repeat, iron fist to stem the weakling's tremors, do you remember? 'Cause the porch hammock of childhood has long rotted away and the day the day you'll never forget, unable to wipe the images from your mind after all this time Still fresh and vibrant as you roll over, the seventeenth of October the day that time ended for you, lips turning blue, relive it every time you're not distracted, ambushed and attacked it blinds you to life and then he took a knife and you know it will never end its part of your being warping all feeling and you understand completely what drove him mad and it's so sad that genetically he was more like you than any other, my brother, my brother.