Glory Fashions Man

"Good morning, little boy,"
  said the rapture of the day,
as it battered out the sound of hope
    in the place it set its waiting claws,
so deep that the little boy screamed
      his youth all away.

So he grew up in caustic spaces,
    stealing denial from ever corner of existence,
with a morbid sense of satisfaction
    that he was who everyone is.

Until that quicksilver solstice moon,
  in the autumn when his mind went under
as twice and once his friends were killed
    by a game they thought was golden.

Then neurosis swallowed knowledge whole,
  with winter's paisley dreams
and he took up his banner's edge
    and ate things we'd never eat;

like orthodoxy and hedonistic greed, 
  or the alabaster brutality
        of his father's raging screams.
   
Then winter, and night,
    and another day in an urban cage
  with a mother lucid as the acid trips
that he took rolling down the stairs
  on the afternoon when he met an icon
and made his friends up
    from he couldn't breathe.

And Christmas, weeks later
    rife with juniper scent
  onthe morning where awoke to face
    the cut of harsh kismet,
    as an egotistical brain spoke
a legion of damning words
  to convince him that the world was right,
and that all he saw, he was;

that children had the strength to die
    in an icon’s  painted eyes
of the mother, holding babe
  foraging for their place rest
      as he drugged himself down to sleep.

Only to awake the next day,
  and vacillate with a horde of weaponry
spilled upon the floor, 
    waiting for his trembling hands to come
  in zietgiest of the moment
    and put an end to the holes.

But walls fell, and years passed
  and now the boy stands a man
after thousands of long and shivering nights,
with fists held high in fearsome fight
    or clenched, as tears dropped from his face,
each spilling out that older blood
  that keeps us from becoming
the ones we really are.