His shirt tucked neatly in
hands placed perfectly on his lap
his feet still....unmoving
Not a smudge nor smear on his cleansed face
Strong and structured, hair neatly combed
he sits
in perfect posture
 
It's his eye's I notice
the fear
the pain
of the hand that strikes
the pressure of excelling
petrified of failure
he sits
in perfect pose
 
This perfect statue of a child
molded so perfect
that it seems
the childhood has been taken
and this shell is all that remains.

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