Eight years old beaten and bruised,
He fled from the house, lost and confused,
Running just running without a thought where,
A child seeking refuge in frigid night air,
He ran for a year, or perhaps just an hour,
Till he ran out his anger, and with it his power,
Casting about him alone in the dark,
He found himself trembling in a dead silent park,
A low haunting hoot cut through the night,
The poor lonely boy shivered in fright,
Cold and exhausted, alarmed by the sound,
He hurried along to a nearby playground,
Clearing the woodchips he lay down below,
A bed in cold dirt and a mind full of woe,
He lay there for ages, unable to sleep,
Then it started to rain and he started to weep,
Earth turned to mud, thunder was crashing,
And all through his shelter water was splashing,
The boy was soon soaked, sodden and drenched,
Sobbing curled in a ball, all bravery quenched,
He cursed his mad mother, he cursed the cold rain,
He cursed his bad life, he cursed all his pain,
The night ate his words and he started to pray,
For the sweetness of sleep to bring him the day,
He lay there for ages, wet to the bone,
The soft dirt beneath him colder than stone,
Stiff beyond movement he merely drew breath,
So done and defeated he wished only death,
And then he awoke, the black sky tinged grey,
Gave a cry of relief at the sight of the day,
He rose slow to his feet and shook off the night,
Stood numb in the chill air and waited for light,
Birds were soon singing to greet the fresh dawn,
He joined them with relish, his misery gone,
A golden glow crested, the day had begun,
He fell to his knees in the face of the sun.