His fingers ceased up like nothing ever imaginable, puppets minus their fair strings
The mind left unscathed, preposterously instrumental
The shell destroyed while the peril inside continues to soar
His knees no longer knocking about of their own wayward accord
As still as clock-work, with bouts of painful movement only ever now and then
When relatively permitted
Seems for Stephen time does account for everything
He will try and smile, a magical mind wanting, so very much as longing to touch the sky, only just making it as far as the lowliest cloud known to any man
Comfort in numbers, perhaps?
They will all swarm if needs be
Not a dry tear in the house – mouse-like silence, ghostly so
His girlfriend still awaits his proposal, no stopping true love

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