The White Deer

I pass the heads hanging on the walls.
You stand so nervously stiff.
Like a crumbling cliff.
We all live again.
I don't know when,
Or if I ever will.
I fill an empty glass with emptiness.
I drink it without taste
Because you can't waste what never was.
I keep a key in the pocket of my opinion.
It opens a vault of trouble.
I swim in the swarm of critics
Thinking I'm the wittiest one.
Sold for led paint and a robin's egg blue.
One feint in the heat of day
And a remark
Which sparked the fray
To melt the fibers and seal the tear.
I wasn't aware of what I was burning.
I'm still just learning.
I'm still insane.
So drained.
It's fine.
And soft.
Like the locks.
Of your innocent hair.
Atop the head of your body.
Oddly shaped.
Your sadness draped.
Like the confusion of your years.
I'll be right here.
I wont tell anyone where it is.
My stuffed giraffe.
My little kid.
Who slid past the empty glass' lid.
I grieve over your light while you die as the catch.
The latch caught on your knobby knees.
They kick until feeble.
The weeble crawling to eat you in the cycle.
I am sorry.
I should have thought it out more.
I've done this before
With panthers and foxes
Deer.
What I have here.
Illegal.
Rare.
I stare at the liquid welling.
My heart swelling in the stall.
I take another drink
And I think
There is water after all.