I worried when I saw him,
Alone with no fresh air
His rosy cheeks stained red with tears
And wet his sweat soaked hair.
I watched as he stared- aimless-
Into the late night sky,
His blue eyes frightened, innocent,
And then they met with mine.
So I smiled, reluctantly,
For I shook, red with rage
His ginger hair, his cold arms bare,
Only two years of age?
He gawked around, the traffic lights
distracted him a while,
Till in a daze he stared right back
And offered me his smile.
Then I waved and thought it wrong
That he should be alone,
He giggled then- the sweetest laugh
That I have ever known.
The minutes passed, my worry grew,
The drug store door ajar,
I kept his eyes open on mine,
As I watched him in the car.
An eternity had come and gone
And I found myself quite shocked
To see his mother return to him;
She left the doors unlocked.
She turned to him, worried I think
Though I'm still not certain why.
I drove away, with several more,
And waved this boy goodbye.

These days, I resent the inevitable morning,
The perpetual lethargy
And the whittling reminder that the world
Has already begun.

I hate the mass of the sand
As I stride past daffodils and quills
And children who are so inquisitive in their innocence
And those who will never receive a meaningful farewell.

I detest my unhappiness
And my cheery neighbours who insist
That their mornings are so eagerly anticipated
And waste endless teary tissues at night.

I despise the mushrooms that have grown on
The grassy and earthy and sandy paths,
That no shoes have kicked them mercilessly,
For no shoes have crossed them in a small eternity.

I loathe the universal perception
That "love" has become an illusion-
A tired and worthless roar
Into the increasingly desirable abyss.

I abominate the abnormality of hope
And that those who empty their shallow pockets of it
Are greeted with a similar distaste
To the farmers who spread manure in the spring.

However, what I hate most is the relentless truth
That I consistently find myself comfortable,
Educated, loved, well-fed,
And bitter

And the fact that so many others do not.

He was one of those rare people
Who heard birdsong in the silence,
Who saw colour in the dark,
Whose rich tongue could describe
The tantalising aroma of foreign meals
As our senses were ***** by cheap perfume in expensive bottles,
Who appreciated olive skin and who glorified brown eyes,
Who could tell with conviction the tales of his youth
When the cream sat atop the milk in a glass bottle
Topped with paper which the crows would pick away
Before they greedily swallowed its innards,
Whose hands were warm and comforting
Though rough and dark,
Who could make you believe, as the bombs dropped,
That everything would be fine,
That when we wake up the next morning
The daffodils will still rattle with passionate intensity,
That the glass would sit calmly in the window pane,
That his rough hands would still be on mine
As the sun rose and the noise hushed.

And they called him mad.