I began with a boy,
his traits were his sparkling eyes,
any who would behold would be bewitched,
mesmerised.
Once there, it was not enough,
I knew the fallacy of his face,
had traced his dimples,
but appearances can only stretch so far.
I told the boy, my hand upon his cheek,
"my child, it is time to feel and think"
of course the boy knew neither,
he was but a doll of my making,
a sculpture,
an empty hanging object to twist to precision.
I whispered to him, when the sky rose empty,
I held him just as the night held me,
I cocooned his ear in hot marbelling breath
I spoke of dreams,
fargone galaxies,
wonders of the world.
I told him to search, to find, to discover.
The boy never moved from his pristine shelf,
each day,
as doors rang open,
and bells clanged closed,
his eyes never flickered,
from their emerald prose.
Courage spiked my veins,
the boy transformed once again,
he metamorphed, bones twisting obscenely in the night,
I heard his silent screams,
his eyes begged for mercy,
boy became a bat,
he became a smashed supplication of glass,
he was shards on my mantle,
he was memories and ghouls awakened.
I held him as the sun ached in my eyes,
I cried into his chest but his heart gave no pleasure,
nor mercy,
he stared so empty and open,
I tried to clasp the word sorry.
We did not speak for weeks,
boy became guilt,
he left his title of creation,
he had arisen as my master,
limbs sharpened to tools of movement,
his eyes would catch me
the green deafened my sight,
the world muted.
Enchanted.
Dust settled on my frosted bones,
I was whittled thin,
hollowed out,
I held no more soul,
only yearning for boy to smile.
But his eyes did close.
one day meaning will surrender,
just like him,
and my empty shelf.
