Sta.sh
He was addicted to heroines:
those golden queens from screens of silver
that lined his shelves in plastic boxes
showcasing their greatest deeds;
and painted whores,
those sirens and saviors,
who stood half naked on shady streets.
They were steel wrapped in petals,
and petals draped in lace,
in their arms lay warmth,
in their hearts lay escape.
He prayed for strong women
that were not so far,
devastatingly far out of reach.
Though still small,
and grateful,
he would shun the sun
and bask in their blessed shadows.
He prayed for someone to stay
whom he could not,
would not,
use up,
not again,
not again.
He vowed not to use angels,
those sweet Nightingales,
who flew away from him in the end – –
but, oh,
to be high on their bravery!
...
He was addicted to heroines,
to the ichor in their veins,
and the lift of their wings.
He was a frightened boy
hiding in the hollows
of the shell of a man,
fearful of fractures
from his weakness.
On the verge of breaking:
terrified the world would see him
without his paper armor;
too meek to be respected,
too weak when victory
was by strength decided.
He was just a boy
addicted to heroines
because he desperately wanted,
and knew that he needed
to be saved.
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That's funny that two of my poems remind you of their songs.
Great work!