The walls crawl
with scribbles
and half painted
reflections.

One line to mark
the years that pasts
in inches grown.

One scratched
bedpost
deformed by the confusion
of a child
who has been
misplaced
by the system
that is supposed to protect him.

Blueberry stains
from squished fruit
paint the pillow case
he is forced to use
as he lays on the floor
for some forgotten
transgression.

He walks a wooden bridge
above a muddy pit
that takes him
from one dungeon
to the next one
where his mind
barely exists.

Flickering images
fall fast
as he forgets
all the emotions
that use to be his.

This house was never his home.
This life was more like a tomb,
where he was buried alive
until that part of him died
and he grew up to be
a pale participant
in this society
of mediocrity.