A Schoolboy’s Sins

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.

Mothers’ Eyes

Reposes she

With cheeks and brow so fair

Image framed

By skeins of flaxen hair

Puckered lips

Forming glowing pout

Recumbent God

Seen without one doubt

 

Lashes flutter

In dreams of golden flight

Tucked into bed

Safe love secures her night

No demons here

No haunted childhood psyche

A child at rest

All should have her like

 

Portraits of injured innocence

Suffuse my working hours

Souls may keen

At battles without power

A helping hand

From those who know the just

Love them all

As adults we most surely must

 

 

A little one

Though worldly without wise

Compassion demands

We see all through mothers’ eyes.