*** HUSHED ***
From them he learns to voice his outcry
at such young age ---
he’s supposed to be playing!
Where forces of thralldom
make him find ways to stand alone;
Cupping hands over his ears,
his way of list’ning to his own songs;
Casting his eyes to familial exiguity
to such fragile relationship,
to the wails of many a depravity;
Though dark he still sees in them a buoy
where the glint sparks unwavering hope
of salvation, of his salvation.
Domestic tumult a cataract to his eyes
and the uprising of wounded soul,
the omen of phantom barricades ---
all blinding his youthful conviction
instilling fear, guilt and rebellion.
Drastic hands grasping tight the metal rails
for the hurting is pushing him to the edge,
the kindled future’s slipping down the ridge.
How soulless it is if they’d let him see them
walk away leaving him, forsaking him!
There must be a way to level the gorge
or he’ll be skidding fast and falling ---
from parental purlieu to bottomless perdition.
From his eyes dreams are escaping
his body shivers, not capable of losing;
At the threshold of their home
where the playground lies,
a crossfire is trapping him, crushing him.
Stand but not just wait, he tells himself
while all the others await
where the balance will go tilt,
Here he is tipping his head high
before this hostile, charred fair ---
Patch the shards, hush the screaming!
Curb my erosion, redress your err!
--- But nobody’s list’ning.
If he could just be much older,
perhaps they’d hear him.
Does he really has to first grow old?
Photograph from
http://www.blogger.com/allcare.net/s2/%20residential.php. For more poetry by me, please visit my blog at
http://literaryworks101.blogspot.com.
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