Toys

May 19, 2009
By
More by this author
for Sean

The red-caped hero faces the fence
with a hole in the dirt far behind.
The plastic mind spoke, not overly dense.
Together, a beetle we find.

He screams, tries to run back to ink
but is felled by rain and High grasses;
he would pick one and fight to the brink
but he is blown by fictional gases.

He is stoic. He sparks without warning
while speeding as far as he can
away from this moment. By morning,
he knows he shall never be man.

The caped one has flown from the nest.
The light in this land does not gleam.
The yellow-stained plastic, at best,
is part of a drowning dead dream:
A red-eyed hero falls through the stone,

Time slashing his ears 'til they're frail.
The grass-stained memory slurs out a moan:
May Joy and Innocence Prevail?





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