Over thy wounds, I breathe what was once yours:
all memories in cool tendrils of air,
sorrows like smoke wafting through all my pores
and in and out of my nostrils. The pair
of us are riddled with inadequate
tattoos - spider webs - leaking red and black -
we bleed ink - we are ink - our plodding fate
to be nothing but scribbles on the back
of the hand of some god soaked in ennui,
like cologne. I will kiss each broken word,
assuming the shape of your fractured teeth,
until your language somehow can be heard -
revived - recognized - burning in my mouth.
I never knew that you could be so loud.

Once, a long long time ago
There was a man named Rhys
He had a saber that could glow,
And passionately preferred boxer-briefs
Known as a champion of justice,
He grew up in a swamp with no sun.
Sounds fake, right? Trust us.
Fore, he's not another 'Chosen One'
This guy was from a family of high power,
Lied he'd protect the Clan Odan-Urr
But when blasters fired, he simply cowered.
And drank all of our liqueur.
However, this would later be forgotten,
Once the man healed what was rotten.