Such lethargy can only come about
via that roller-coaster of hormones
which every human being must survive.
He slumped in a corner, grumbling of
injustice, inequality, and a headache.
Anarchy trailed dark lines form his ears,
snaking over his clothes into an
oblivious back pocket.

The head that rested back (most likely
leaving a greasy signature on the wall
behind) was crowed with curls, worthy
of a different Bacchus, the smell the only
memory of parties past, and marking trees
as territory - discretely - on the stumbled
route home.

Clothes, uniform in their baggy tribute to
a long lost era known as rock 'n' roll, hung
from his over-used, under-slept, not-quite
washed body, and his footwear?
Threadbare, for all he really cared,
which he didn't.

Between matted locks and pale fingers
his shadowed face made way for his (single)
saving grace, those eyes. Shining darkly. maybe
with passion, tears, mischief, awe or angst,
perhaps love, not that he believes you'd understand.

What he doesn't realise, is that
they are how we see, through his
adolesence, past his own self-centre,
into the centre of himself.