360… No Child Left

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

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With Each Breath…

Nothing.
Breathing.
Naked.
Damp midnight air kissing the upper lip,
The tip of the nose, then caressing the breasts with each slow inhale and exhale.
Then nothing.

Legs.
Ivory and crossed.
Hips creased but not tight.
Slight chill to the spine as thoughts rise,
Then crash violently hurting the spirit.
Then nothing. Only to start over. And over… again.

Palms.
Fingers clinching the dirt.
Pure hate warming with love.
Same…ness. Whole…ness… Not dead.
Stabbing the middle of awake and asleep.
Then nothing. But pain… again… Breathe.

Eyes.
Soft. Hurt. Alive. But soul dead.
In. Then out. Hot breath warming the cool night air.
Watching the smoky swirls touch the trees then off to the stars.
The cold moon grows, then spreads it’s legs across the lake gently searching for warmth.
Then nothing. In. Then out. Again…

The mind.
Calm. Then violent while the eyes hunt.
In. Then out. Pounding to a soft dull ache with each wheeze. Then calm.
The aroma of love smacks the lips.
At peace.
With nothing. Again… Over and over.

 

© Carlson, 2014