Puer Aeternus, or the lost boy

My puissance drips from
thorns of a blackberry
blossom—
always enamored
by the ephemeral elegance,
I suppose.
 
 
and whose fucking
laurels am I to
be
resting upon,
exactly?
tripped up in
double Dutch
propped up on
a
broken
crutch…
 
 
An unwieldy pen
twirling
between my digits
hangs suspended:
the A-Bomb.
If dropped, its
heavy particulate
matter will
irradiate the smog
that blankets thick over my
anaretic brain.