Closing you in.
The strike of pity
Piles a prisoner’s sin.
The casket tells a story
Buried underground, of a man,
Six feet tall, all was nothing he kept,
Richard Cory, silence was all it took.
Williams was Robin himself, I suppose,
Like stars that shine too timid at night,
The wings clipped of a bird to die,
Shield us not from memory,
Cover up your layers,
Cut open the hide,
Let your soul find