I talked to my boy because he thought life as a toy,
but now he knows it’s a painting, and
what his mind will employ, to dodge every ploy,
are the colors of his own making, but
what only he felt was spoken while he knelt,
for what he believed was in waiting, and
what would never melt where the cards are dealt
would be the assurance time was saving

He had to decide who spoke truth and who lied,
but the colors he mixed already knew, it
was as if the one who died and the one who cried
were mixed in time for something true, even
if what was breaking was what was awakening,
for what is a man if not his own hue, but
only his own making can dream as he is sleeping
before the morning when he became new