The Blossomghost Tree

Oh, but they tortured him! Dressed him as a woman, howling for love in rags. He was pathetic. He was a prince. He was dying in a thousand colors. They put a crown on his pocked head and declared him ruler of the stranded, of the lame, of the antagonistically poor, degenerate souls of the alleyways and chronicles, of the proof that sadness denounces the petty.

It...is...true. And the forgiven scoundrels of testified pity will hang in their shackles on brick walls. Their posture will straighten as they stare at escape and realize its sucking, soothing, wet improbability. A wrist in a chain, shriveling to the bone, and freedom there in the rotting, love in the mouths of ghosts, tears on the cheeks of martyrs long since hollowed out.

Film on a Tenement Wall.

A pinwheel stuck out in the lawn. The building made of bricks. The hotel and a thousand doors. Obscure behind the most rotund dreams. Stuffing sheet music papers away in otherwise empty sock drawers. Struck wire and white keys hidden from snooping maids. One door mistakenly ajar, whispered with heart, "Adagietto! The fool!" The beginning of an explanation. But we're all so bored, and we won't share. A pinwheel stuck out in the lawn. The wind making it move.