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The child is alone. Home; without walls. The ground is wet with snow
cover, slush & icy mud. His toes frozen beyond his senses. His
eyes dry and cracked from the frozen film of earlier tears, his vision
clouded. His cheek; a mix of swollen heat and frosted blood.
Goosebumps under his sweater, his coat hanging in his closet. The wind
throws him off balance, he tries to regain his footing, but slips on
black ice.
His left hand scuffed from the fall, his wrist sore, likely bruised.
His jeans soaked and salted, rigid and stiff, it's a mere 20 degrees,
with colder windchills, and it's even colder inside him, and all he
knows...is alone.
He looks to his soul for enough warmth to survive the night, secretly
he wishes for hypothermia. The warmth is just to dull the pain. New
tears wish to fall, but cannot escape the rheum of ice that holds them
in. His teeth chatter and his bones shake.
The woods are dead, but the cemetery is alive; home...for the night.
The mausoleum is locked. An open grave offers shelter from the wind,
and so he climbs in. He punches the wall of dirt, his prayer to the
sandman. He wipes the blood between his hands...his hands to his
face...he lies down...hoping to never wake back up into his living
death.
The cold takes him...but his punishment is far from over. He awakes
crisp, crunchy...pallid and pale blue, with blood encrusted streaks and
scabbed hands. The sky is clear, the air frigid. it takes several
minutes for his rigor-mortis to ease enough for him to stand and crawl
out of the earth.
He looks around to a blanket of white and gray stones. Pain and hurt
in every direction. He has nowhere to go...nowhere but
home...shivering violently, he looks down, his knees can no longer
support his weight; they buckle...it's either take one step, or...
...he falls back home.
By: Jaye Eryk
Copyright ©2005
Tags: Poetry Writing
So, I've been requested to make use of my blog. I don't generally blog, however I am a poet and a good friend of mine (who is not the president of Chili) asked if I'd post some writings on here. Why not. A forewarning: My poetry is not for the lighthearted. If you play with Cabbage Patch Kids, the (new) transformers or have an IQ that matches your shoe size - stop reading...(or blankly staring at the screen) here. P.S. I enjoy non-monosyllabic words, and if you wish to comment, you are more than welcome to do so, but please do it non-monosyllabically. P.P.S. I write metaphorically. My writing is meant to be interpretive. I do not explain anything in my poetry. My goal is simply to bring out emotion. Whether your interpretation is even remotely close to mine is irrelevent as long as you can take something from it. Don't try to define me, just make it your own. ...and thanks for reading. (Lizards are cool.) 
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