Stage I:

Did it hurt, my dear,
when you took your first breath?

The first breath that exposed your achingly
Bare,
Unknowing
Body to the world’s crooked, bony fingers.
Bony, fingers that held the throats of your kind-
Twisting until red-crimson ribbons left their now
Raw and gelid carcasses.

Did it hurt, my dear,
when you first blinked your eyes that didn’t see?

Didn’t see the warm arms that once coddled you,
Now lay limp-
Succumbed to the skeleton fingers that gripped the crimson stained scythe.
But of course,
It didn’t
For you have not yet walked the
Cracked, strewn road.

Stage II:
You boasted loudly
Too loud,
With your head held high.
You had thoughts of conquering
the beasts;
Thoughts too big
For your puny hands.
That is why.

Your knees, now scathed, are covered with dirt-
Dirt that threatened to eat away at your tender skin.
Brown tinted rivulets made of your tears trickled down your legs.
The world has no room for a bright-eyed child
no room for hungry fingers and minds
the world snaps hunger in half without a second thought

Legs too feeble.
Hands too small.
That is why.
It was because you held your head too high.

Stage III:
Shoulders broad enough to carry
But not strong enough to carry.
Sheets of green, though paper thin,
Crushed them and you with it.
Your cries ripped through the air
But not even one tear was found.
A mangled dog’s whimpering.
Pathetic.

Finale:
Nearing the end of the cracked-strewn road,
You expect to find a box of treasure;
A box filled to the brim
with glimmering amulets of gold.
Grilled into thoughts is the concept of
happy ever after…
A silhouette lies in the distance,
And you scramble towards it.
But instead you find an empty, angular box
Hungry, bony fingers push you into its constricting adumbral walls;
Thrashing and struggling will do you no good.
A slash of the crimson stained scythe.
Gone.