The boy stands with his heart in his hands, oppressed by the world that out casts him. The boy stands with his heart in his hands, never the one to argue, the violence, the ice, the flesh on flesh realization that he's true, pure. He's never held but he breaths the same as you and me, his skin is thinner than you'd imagine, his heart still trying to beat through the violence and laughter. The boy stands his clothes torn and dripping from rain, no fire to trust no one to lullaby him to sleep. The boy stands in the snow, no expression on his baby face, his heart weakening in his hands.QUIETER THAN WHISPERS
The dead ones are here, pulse still there, hearts still talking, minds chattering away, behind glazed eyes. Quieter than whispers they listen to your thoughts, hiding there dreams beneath a sheet of cold. Statuesque and waiting fingers still fumbling. The never minders in the beds that they never made hospital corners shattered at the very seams that hold their tongues in their mouths.
© 1999 Copyright Jemma-Alicia Williams
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