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The wind, it whispers like a choir of hags,
under the light of the moonbeams,
there lay a broken child.
In his filth, he mutters,
in his dirt, he shudders,
so quick to judge we are,
the Prodigy Son.

Crackling trees and dried up leaves,
under the light of the moonbeams,
they shelter the child.
It cannot be said,
that the everlasting dead,
can't raise the living youth,
and show them how to be alive.

Out of the furnace and into the fire,
one mans plight is another mans pleasure.
Buried beneath garbage, recycled from his head,
his undeniable will is hard to measure.

The chatter is growing louder,
among the who's and what's,
the where's and when's,
the how's and why's,
they're racing round,
throwing sand,
throwing stones,
blasting the boy,
the fears he holds,
the anger he stores,
they set the trees on fire,
the dry leaves burn ten fold,
it's a hot box,
a red hot forge,
it melts his skin and bones,
then dies as quick as it caught,
and from the ashes, the Imperfect Son is born.

Rising above the smoldering orange embers,
under the white light of the moonbeams,
there stands the Imperfect Son,
and he washes his hands with mud.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Dancing in the blackest sky,
between the stars pinned up with wishes,
elegant as silk in the wind,
she finds a home in her own skin.

Beacon of fire in the cold night sky,
a dying star turned blazing sun.
Ever so gracious as she glows,
moonbeams down to the Earth below.

She scans the surface but doesn't scratch,
barren and covered in dirt and mud.
Something catches her eye, a boy exiled,
there he lays, a broken child.

A sole spotlight, a moonbeam bright,
finds the boy in the dirt on a cold black night,
and the arctic winds howl,
carrying the voices of those who doubt him.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
God, I've never asked much,
I don't need and I don't beg.
Years go by, nothing changes,
war wages inside my head.

It's come to my attention,
that you're some savior.
You know my condition's dire,
you can see it in my behavior.

I want to believe but it's so ******* hard,
when every morning I wake up with a battered heart,
a brain that's been ravaged and war torn for years,
and a body that's been broken by fear.

God, I've never asked much,
I don't beg and I don't need,
but can you answer my prayers now,
either save me or **** me,
save me or **** me.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
"Poor soul,
spit upon that,
poor soul,
he never knew what hit him,
and it hit him so."
They laughed and jabbed,
his plight entertaining,

He's just,
another *******,
he's just,
a *******,
he deserves this,
what a useless boy.

Just about as useful as a coat of paint,
applied in the rain.
Or maybe an umbrella on a sunny day.

What a useless soul,
arms outstretched and begging,
it takes a fool to see one,
but they don't see it that way.

Poor soul,
resting in the mud,
poor soul.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
The world came crashing down,
lead raindrops on my trembling hands,
no one else around could ever understand.

Down the pathways, I stumbled broken,
through the crowd, I made my way,
down to the river where I cried,
and all my tainted tears washed away.

Chest collapsed and heart compressed,
I fell to the cold soaking pavement,
never had I ever felt so much disappointment.

I held her heart, it was ethereal,
it was mine to have and mine to break,
and I made the worst mistake of my life,
when I dropped it on the ground.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
I'm shaking in your absence,
your love gives me withdrawals.
I miss your kiss but the only thing touching my lips,
is the smooth river of alcohol.

God sees me as sin,
I'm an animal in a cage.
Nothing but another cheap trick to friends,
till they turn the page.

And then I float like a wisp,
on the very winds I condemn,
nothing but a prodigy child,
shattering like fine china.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
I wish you were here tonight,
the stars are peering through the clouds,
it just finished down pouring out,
you can smell the pavement.

I'm cruising down I-93,
there's a blazing red, smoldering on the horizon,
probably just light pollution,
but it's burning up the sky,
burning it alive,
and it fades into the black night,
like the fire in your eyes,
only not as bright.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
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