There is a child within me.
Poor bastard is scared.
He watches what time does.
To other people.
To me.
I look in the mirror.
The only familiar part
Are these eyes staring back.
Those are the child’s eyes.
Gently squinting in the sun.
He is a speck,
In the bleakness of being.
But from time to time:
A woman will smile,
A toddler will laugh,
A moon will hang in a day-lit sky.
The child fills his eyes.
Sending tears into my skull.
These tears.
These purple electrical tears.
Run down spine.
Make their way to my fingers and toes.
Encumbered.
I embrace it.
All of it.
This horribly alluring ambiguity of being.
It is mine.
Mine to own.
I hold it.
The child too.
He is safe.
He believes me.
But it is too much life to bear.
Retreating within.
Leaving an essence
That slips through my fingers.
Yet something lingers,
Existing in Plato’s heaven
Next to the number two and wooden pipes.
The memory of him.
Or the memory of me.
Like most things, I can’t decide.
So I put on Miles Davis.
And imagine pink trees blooming in the spring.
About the Creator
Ruben De Escapado
Most know me as a poet sitting on a park bench in Central Park. Writing poetry for strangers. Before that I lived a life and learned a few things. Now I listen to what the world had to teach others. Believe in yourself and be honest. Okay.
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