VI-- A murder of poor Yorick

In the countryside, along the wayside, wandering,
I pursued a man who held his soul in glass around his neck.
He sang Aegean rimes and rang Chinese chimes,
and tried climbing the Alps in an autumnal pose
while striving, searching, seeking the Grail and the better part of prose
and valor.
I called to him, authoritative and voluble; volatile.
"Run, alum of our army!
Retreat and desert, and flee into the desert,
where your corpse will refuse to rot--
turned into a seeping, speaking spigot of vitality and failing clot
and will testify to all the testament of truancy!"
He stopped and stabbed himself, and then he fell.
I viewed his face-- I knew him well.
And his prison-prism, the penitentiary and purgatory for his spirit,
came undone.
The shards and slices, as they split, echoed and hinted the prices of being and the devices of life;
reverberated the interest on existence.
The fragments formed shapes of treachery--
perfectly forged for betrayal and the sheathe of a brother's back--
and with corrosive coruscation,
scintillated in isolation.
And my truculence, sated, left me, forsaken--
haloed, hallowed, and hollowed.