The Ballad of Dwight Fry

He simply sat there sat there
By himself, alone
But for the frantic screaming
Of his scratched cell phone
As time dripped slowly
And wettly from the roof
Of the overhang overhead
And onto his polished boot
He shuddered slightly
With each indrawn breath
As if trying madly
To triumph but the rest
Had drawn him to his knees.
Till finally the screaming
He answered.

You malign me completely
Mister, won't you reconcider?
My fortune's on the stake,
And it's time to make or brake.

Into the barren sunlight
Like a shoestore that's been robbed
Glass crunching beneath is shoes
Striking him as odd
The curvature of breeze
As it whickered through the trees
Undying hunter that
Would drag him to his knees
Again, and delving deeply
Where his personality hides
Afraid of the light that says
The future is coming on
Fatally.

Sitting on a parkbench
A smile rides his lips
Curled into a snarl
That launched a thousand ships
Towards the equator
Around and around
"Are you lost?", cried the curator
As he parrused through his grounds
Eyeing him thoughtfully
"Or mearly waiting to be found"
"Sir", he mumbled gruffly
"Can there be tomorrow
For one such as I?"
Staring intently at the anthill
Swarming at his feet
"Sirrah, it is clear to me,
That you'll simply have to wait and see."