One reason to actually read it:
“THE LONESOME WALTZ OF MATTHEW SHEPARD”
Oscillate wildly in the northern lights
of Aurora Borealis-bent, motion-pictured lives,
staccato—black like crows, then white like doves
on all the ghosts on the floor two-stepping for love,
but he’s rooted to a bar stool with the alcohol,
neglecting local newspaper coverage of the Fall
of Mankind, thus befriending two wingless men,
who led a lonesome waltz with the touch of a hand.
Stepping: one-two-three, two-two-three, three-two-three, four,
as the pair of black hearts danced in time out the door
& led a tiny, young Icarus to a cold, damp street,
where September showers & Jack-o-lanterns meet.
As through the looking glass, the Queen of Hearts
put the knave on trial for stealing her tarts,
so with graceful tongues are prisoners lured
to be tied to the gallows for something absurd.
So they danced him like a scarecrow to an empty field,
where seeds of hate were sewn, what did harvest yield?
for Hopeful, young Icarus, too close to the sun,
with battered wings broken at the butt of a gun,
tied & bound like Prometheus to a wooden fence
looking just like a scarecrow, but too scared to dance.
He was simply waltzing with the footsteps home,
but they sashayed him to the hospital.
They say Pandora’s Box only opened up violence,
but a Butterfly of Hope flew out from the silence,
so when you think that Hope was all his head,
a thousand angels danced around his deathbed.