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A kid's poetry
I'll start off slowly, because I'm not sure of how much of my stuff I want to share.
I cut a hole in the floor
Wielding my saber, a spade
that hides me from the sun
when the colors wash out
and it's all backwards in black and white
except for those terrifying shades of gray (grey)
who feather feelingly beneath me
He raises his hand to strike again and
again
the torn and battered bace
of the brass nail
goldly glittering in the hammer's harsh embrace
slipping through the pine
(lonely eyes can't wander glued in place)
If you would have held it in your hand first-
well-
we all know that the crimson silk
slips far more easily
between the errant slivers
of the rough pine box
But it's probably too late for that
As I reach out for the fleeing grays
That aren't as frightening anymore
Quicksilver streaking upward through fingertips
Pressed against his eyes
In one last, desperate attempt
to see
More to come, but if you don't like it, let me know and I'll leave well enough alone.
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