Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Edward Hawthorne May 2013
I remember when we were young,
and the shark fin made by falling water droplets
from the back-and-forth sway of windshield wipers
on our car window would scare you
Because you thought that the spaces we couldn’t reach
would form monsters in their crevices,
and I would laugh and roll my eyes,
like big brothers did.
And I remember how,
on nights when we would sleep over at grandma’s,
the pitter-patter of our puerile feet on hardware floors
was the only sound to be heard.
Shadows formed where the beam of my flashlight hit,
adorned with fading Spiderman stickers and the like-
and you would squeal under my whispered protests
because of the unfurling octopus limbs
that were the leaves of a potted plant.
We grew older, and so did my suspicions,
as you crept out of the realm of childish make-believe
and into a world that even when showcased in daylight was a nightmare.
Demons, from the deep fire that enflamed the world’s core
tried to penetrate  the surface, according to you.
But as their hands reached forth out of the earth’s skin,
they curled in agony, the evil of the earth halting their conquest.
They fossilized and shriveled in autumn’s wake,  
gray and deadened fingertips just unassuming tree branches,
the perennial reaches just fibrous spindles blurring in the sunlight.
The world held prospects despite your macabre claims,
And as we grew I distanced myself from your melancholic tune.
Trees were trees, and bore fruit at summer’s twilight
and the friends I made were all of the parts most sweet.
I was content with the woman I met, she blonde-haired and lovely
her free-falling locks sparkling gold in every light,  
and her personality as rich and as glossy.  
I was content with my life of looking away from spaces
where our human hands couldn’t reach,
demons out of eyesight in the beam of glass city buildings.
But as the dusk of one day segued into the dawn of another,
I grew weary,
each routine just a part of this monotonous human noise
to which I, too had voiced.
And I found myself driving one day when thunder roared in the sky,
rain once again pouring into its shark fin mold.
Your voice came into my head,
the demon hands that had had died trying to take us over with their evil
but overwhelmed by our own brand of hellish wretchedness
lined the freshly paved sidewalk,
and with a twist of the wheel one unreachable space met another.
Edward Hawthorne Mar 2013
All these children should ever know
are streams of light in summer wheat
flecks of sun between waves of grain
and feather strokes on roaming hands.

All these children should ever know
are tails of clouds in opalescent skies
whether sought after or decoded
between pillows of grass in dandelion meadows.

All these children should ever know
are dreams of flight over moonlit cites
of the scale to mountain peaks downed with moss
and the spray of saltwater on dolphin-back swims.

Never should these children see
the look of fear on cadavers non-blinking
the trail of blood on linoneum tiles freshly bleached
or the glinting smile of a curved blade.

Never should these children feel
the tilt of a barrel upon their heads
the chill of a stare from a face they can't see
or the rumble of a cry within their throats.

Never should these children long
for days past sitting in empty playgrounds
for moments spent dreaming without aim
for the knowledge to come of what they did wrong.
Edward Hawthorne Mar 2013
When she was but eight
And the world was kind
A winter struck world
Was a Snow Queen palace.

City buildings of crumbled brick
Under the scowl of a cumulus gaze
Were castles dusted with snowflakes
Like in her fairy tale book.

And the knot of **** choked
by the rusted iron fence
Was a magical beanstalk
That towered into the sky

Not impaled by cold gray metal
Or stifled by flakes of iron rot
Nor kneeled in a final prayer
Or in the last cry of a hungered beggar.

When she was but ten
And the world was still kind
She wore her hair in pigtails
That boys pulled for as she ran.

And she heard giggles
As she put on her new glasses to read the board
And wondered what the worth of sight meant
As much as any ten year old could.

But the cracked, ashen sidewalk
Was still a cobbled walkway
Leading to an enchanted forest of gumdrops
Like in her fairytale book.

When she was fourteen
And the world was more strange
She wore her mother’s makeup  
And the boy with dimples smiled at her.

And she tucked her glasses into her bag
Even though she couldn’t see
Along with her book of fairy tales
Because boys didn’t like girls who were smart.

When she was sixteen  
The world grew cold
And as was the instinct of lightning to strike
Was the spark of her tongue.

Crumpled papers slashed with red
And threats of a future looming meant nothing
Because of the boy next to her in the seat of his car
And the promises his smile held

But as the palm of his hand slid up her thigh
And she felt the lust in his soul roll off him
The beat of her heart spoke trepidation
But his smile reassured her and she succumbed.

When she was of twenty
And the world was one bleak
She held close to her chest the head of a babe
And rocked him gently as they cried in unison.

Papers scattered on a wooden table
In a room flickering with dying light
Asked for more than what they implied
And for more than what she could give.

And in the cold light of day snow fluttered past her window,
Fermented teardrops singed and bitter
The walkways on which they lay just broken sidewalks
The castles upon their touch crumbling to dust.

— The End —