Poetry 'n Prose

The Everlasting II

Aged seven

lacking the ability

to write something


and meaningful

I carved a death poem

on my wood ink-stained

desk top,

three  little words

that meant so much.


And then,

by your derision,

I found out

it wasn’t

“what’s this boy!”

to the rapturous laughter

of the other boys

who by then had been

put in their place

with leather and steel,

“I don’t know Sir

afraid of your fists.


And as my body

was dragged

to the back of the class

I don’t remember

the kicks,

nor screams

it was too late

I had already arrived

under the Acacia tree

overlooking a farmstead.


And as you read

to me, I listened

I watched your lips gently

speaking to the wind

about the good Shepherd

and the lost flock.

And you found me

believing, that if you

had touched me

just once

I would have made that touch

last me

my whole life.

By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

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