He's a strange boy
Dusty hair and cobwebs in his ears
Musty clothes and rusty bones
He doesn't wash
He doesn't even brush the grit from his eyes
So when he blinks little trails fall his cheeks
He sinks into old black boots
Always moves with the wind
Like he's pinned to it
Grinning glint of the sun warms his cold face
As he floats from place to place
He cries but no tears come
Instead some tiny spiders come sliding
And devouring each other
Retreating to weave webs around his head
He hears the wind whistling through them sometimes
Tries to learn the notes
To play on his bone piccolo
The Spider Web Sonata
He'd call it if anyone would ever listen
But it doesn't seem to be the type of thing
That would ever happen to him
Not in this life anyway