53

Twenty plus six used to be a pillar

the addition, my motivation.

Supportive, never faltering

I thought he was one never leaving.

The realist he is rooted me,

the idealist that makes free.

Then twenty-seven subtracted seven,

lost himself and the rest of his soul.

He became such an idiot, 26 hated him immediate.

Along came twenty-seven plus 4

who lost 4 and became 27.

Twenty-seven lost his identity-

he is at loss and hated himself.

Twenty-six hated him, ignored him.

Always, he'd treat others with such warmth.

Yet to twenty-seven, it was akin to the artic.

Every day 3 of 7 days,

we'd have to sit together.

Talking was disabled,

and is but a fond memory deeply etched in twenty-seven.

Through the many hours,

silence peaked in decibels -

deafening as can be.

Yet once he turns his back,

or comes into the present of

artifical 27,

chatty as he can ever be.

The legitimate 27 lost.

Who is 27 to speak anyway?

53 is now 57.

27 lost his voice and died.