His smile broke apart his face, after the years.
There was a slowness to the way he moved,
An energy that slowly waned--
Even when he reassured all he was alight,
His flames appeared to have died out--
Yet, none saw this, until his body lay dry
And lifeless in a wooden crate--
The light leaving his skin
And ruining the illusion
That had taken him a lifetime to create.

One day, unseeming,
The babbling brook
Stopped speaking--
She ducked her little head
And sunk beneath
The rocky pebbles,
Hoping to listen
And find out what the trees
Had been saying--
Now that she wasn’t
Intercepting them.
But, in doing so
The pacemaker of her stream
Died out and stopped beating.

I often think,
when scrimmaging
Among traffic,
that the city seems to
Swallow you.
Isn’t it strange,
how some people
Find that comforting?

Calm yourself down, child.
They spoke in gentle tones
Words suppressed, mild
Their reassurances
Sank uselessly like stones.
My fingers flicked away
Everything they claimed
To own--
Broken bones, a shriveled soul;
Who is a child
If not a fully inflated balloon,
Full to the bursting
Before scandalous wild
And shaking sorrow
Maliciously chipped away
Their countenance,
Puncturing the elastic
Until the vibrance
Lay in a thousand
Stretched pieces

That’s not what I meant,
How come erasers
don’t offer recompense?
Should’ve used a pencil, not a pen,
As I tried to make sense
of the contents of my head--
Fumbling with my hand,
Trying to use my left,
To craft an illegible land
I am bound to forget.

Blanketed by chimney sweeps
And coal dust the color
Of wilted childhood innocence,
I sat before the fireplace,
Crisscrossed, wondering
If my tears were enough
To put out the burgeoning flames
And clean the filth on my skin
Yet, I knew, only One’s blood
Could wash it away