Epitaph for a Malformed Adaptation
When, at last, the earth yawns,
the dirt beckons,
and my body responds
without soul,
there will be hewn a name
into bedrock, proclaiming
"Sir Selick, though gone,
pays the toll."
From my casket of flesh
fled the spirit,
Greying matter, unmeshed,
fled the mind,
leaving naught but a wonder
of art rent asunder
by artists against bottom lines.
Though the Town may be Dark,
let me see it
in the child eyes'
starkest contrast,
Beyond its derision
there once laid a vision
that Henry remark'd wouldn't last.
The final thing
I'll feed the soil,
with no bones
in time's greed
left to spend,
will be dead futures' haunts,
possibility's taunts,
what this film,
unimpeded,
might've been.
