The cane swishes the dirt at his feet in tiny little circles.
A breeze begins to blow through the tiny blades of grass which pierce his ears like sirens screaming through a dead New York alley.
The chills of laughter ring through the meadow that’s filled with rusty swings, razor blades and tainted syringes.
But the crows still sing. Always the crows. Forever the crows. “These are good friends.”
He taps the mound of dirt and slashes trough the ants now limp carcass with the cane he had carved himself decades ago. “You’re now free.”
A loud crowd begins to grow while sitting in the waiting room that’s inside his head. “So much chatter.” But can’t hear the words; just sounds of voices and pain.
A child’s pain. His pain. The child that never grew. They never do. They stay cowering in the corner where we leave them. The child never forgiven by thee.
The old mans face fills with tired tears.
Heavy breathing, loud heart and quiet whimpers.
“I’m sorry… Had I loved you more I would of grown… I would’ve cared… I could’ve REALLY loved and lived… I’m afraid of death therefore afraid of life… It’s so loud now. Forgive me for I forgive you.”
The child smiles, he smiles, they are thee. But never free.
He stands. Waves to the crows to follow and he heads back. He’ll find his way back tomorrow, and repeat, having forgotten he was there… Everyday, for years since she passed.
He walks, humming a sickening tune. He wipes away the tears with his sleeve and begins to breath again and sings,
“I’m the worlds forgotten boy…”
© Carlson, 2014