A couple of film references turned up in my Facebook feed today which jogged the memory and set this off in motion.
He is shaking the way I imagine typists
when they think the internet is wrong.
"She's infectious human waste, good luck saving HER!"
The release of hate drains his skin, his clothes,
as grey as concrete.
I show him no response,
brain locked on the Fisher King.
Wondering if her wounds are mine
held open by a knight wreathed in flame.
Dreaming this might be my feat to accomplish,
that we might both get to go home.
Yet I don't reach out to help her.