Bye Boogyman

My Boogaardian hero fell like a giant oak, it shook the ground. People are saints, pure and perfect creatures, they judge so effortlessly, their stones are smooth, nothing is sharp or rusted like blades, they wipe the fat from their oily mouths and lick their lips with a hundred purple tongues. Joys and shouts as the animals run for cover, more wars and violence, demons in the sunlight, raped orchards and destroyed contrast.

There are no thieves, no false prophets and liars, no addicts and sexual deviants, people are crystal clear and made of the black ice in heaven, friends stab you in the front, you can see for miles, each melting plateau stretched out like the arms of a chestnut, no sinister secrets, no remorse and pine bark, truly perfect blots of pristine coins intoxicated by the slick residue of yellow jacket sap. 

There are no authors left, cold in the grave as packets of sleet glisten the wet snow, redundant fingers in the frost scratching out words, ageless paper and tarnished crowns, my barren canvas of swaying and circling wintry vultures, each bald with ugly ebony feathers, jet black and abrasive, this snow-crater in my chest, this empty, lonely, hollow hole dissolved in tears.