Obsidian eyes
strip colour from his whipped soul,
volcanic centre
pulsing,
pushing,
thrusting
to tensioned skin and beyond.
His haloed aura
shooting sulphorous, searing flares,
purpled haze of rage, a scarlet maze,
nothing muted in violent
whippet thin lips
twsting, ‘fuck you’s’, to all,
his sundry, motley enemy
of stunned football laughter and giggling girls.
Absent abundant charm,
intelligence,
humor,
wit,
gone with his glorious smile.
All this,
in the shortest of longest moments
before the tears,
blind, burning anguish
of a silent voice,
forbidden to reveal
the cost no child will willingly pay.
So silent.
Then violent.
Souls warping nicely for future
atrocities.
Blessed, burnt souls –
the child sacrificed –
on the altar of adult
duplicity, supidity
and,
quite possibly,
the same reasonable rage.
All our sins.
scottishmomus 