my poor castaway son
why do you draw your own blood?

you bleed for azure butterflies;
yet they are false, maybe you were
mistaken by speckled shadows
on the walls of your lonesome igloo.

my distraught little boy
why do you clutch your pillow so tight?

you never had a problem sleeping
and you complain of heat at night.
what makes the company of another
so desirable in twilight hours?

my son, bearer to my name
why can't you sing the way you used to?

you followed her breath like a beacon
and she lead you down foreign footpaths.
reluctantly pack up your campsite,
and escort yourself to another route.

my son, my sole wish is
for you to love yourself
as much as I love you.