There's small boy in the corner of my room.
His skin pale as sunny day clouds drifting by
In the calm sapphire sky of turmoil
And the sun sinking deep beyond distant mountain fences

How slow his blood drips
From scars on such ivory flesh
The scribbles across drywall boundaries
He's been muttering them for days.

It's hard to think with all that screaming in his head.
Each pinprick needle's kiss,
Each steely scrape against haggard flesh,
Each drip-drop pitter-patter of ruby gold.

He was like a dirty washcloth,
Left in the kitchen sink for days on end
Until a spill of emotion needed cleaning
But they never washed him clean

Then one day he was not
Perhaps thrown into the trash
Having grown too abused to be needed.
To be replaced with something bleached useful

I took a minute to read what he had left.
The writings of a child driven to madness
How painful they were
A macabre rendering of Mozart.

The destruction of something so beautiful.

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