Near Vladimir is Where?

he might not actually die
but from the dark wall i heard him cry
with a sharp needle stuck deeply into his Russian arm
like an angry plow blade in dirt on a communal farm.
looking up from a narrow balcony
he caught a fleeting glimpse of me.
i saw him watching a solitary woman frown;
he saw her golden hair was turning brown
and didn't want to let her down;
he thought it high time to sound a national alarm,
so i ran upstairs for a quick ten minutes
to find them both in high good looks.
scattered on the floor were religious books,
other stolen relics from their historic past,
and cold drinks in a hot room meant to last
until my visit came to its' awkward end.
yes, i might have been a former friend
but our conversation was not a great success
i left feeling more downs than ups:
i must have drank too much and was too far advanced in my cups
many others had lost their way on the descending stairs,
some very strong characters with plenty of cares
and the weaker ones who haven't fared as well
when looking from east to west for a tolling bell.
they lost collective nerve and fell.
he critically blamed me for all his imagined woes:
his small stature, the frost-bitten toes
and those pervasive feelings of neglect and fear;
even the torch-carrying lady wouldn't blindly tread near
as he laid on his most personal charms.
i heard him threaten her with force of arms
but she didn't go to pieces all of a sudden
like some other girls did.