- Joined
- Apr 28, 2011
- Posts
- 1,259
- Reaction score
- 1
- Points
- 1,105
Foreword:
I guess I would say that this poem is semi-autobiographical. I wrote this when I was a young boy and the boy talked about resembles myself and my experiences.
The Boy Who Walked the Lonely Island Shore
Written by Fatal Dawn é
A little boy treads deceptive terrain.
Lonely and uncharted, reality has not touched it.
It isnââ¬â¢t home ââ¬â but itââ¬â¢s where his heart remains.
He closed his eyes as his eardrums mimicked the swaying rhythm of trees.
Buried his feet under the tickling hot sands,
Smiling softly as his skin was kissed by the brisk breeze.
Faint smells of orchids and aloe brush rushed in without delay.
Far from the pungency of cheap plastic and latex,
Not the smell of the hospital corridor reeking of death and decay.
He smiled as he heard the crisp chirping of robin birds as they took flight.
Soothing sounds - not of the incessant beeping of his respirator.
Away from the abrasive hollers and neighboring cries which resonated at night.
The golden hills hugged a blue chalky sky,
The air itself was imbued by verses of verve and vitality.
Not ventilated oxygen where each and every molecule was sterilized.
And for once his mind was not undone by disquiet ââ¬â
The dark concaves of pain could not take custody over him
Hurt did not seize his joints and his bones did not erupt in riot
He stretched his fragile body upon soft grass,
An improvement from that old bed fixed upon metal and brass.
He savored the island fruit with his own mouth, no tubes penetrated his navel.
The usual assortment of drugs did not take their position on a table.
He used to cry watching boys his age on the chopping block.
The patients in his ward often did not make it to adulthood.
Pondering his fate, he would stay awake ââ¬â staring at the clock ââ¬â
Unable to sleep, shuddering in his sheets from sheer shock.
But today he will watch the calming tide,
Wiping away tears and pushing his worry aside.
Eventually came sunset as the gold hills dimmed to purple,
So did his heart sink and his liver gurgle.
As the day ends, so he returns to familiar struggles and hurdles.
He awoke in his usual bed sheets, wringing his face in his hand.
Close to his mental manacles, but far from his island in the sand.
I guess I would say that this poem is semi-autobiographical. I wrote this when I was a young boy and the boy talked about resembles myself and my experiences.
The Boy Who Walked the Lonely Island Shore
Written by Fatal Dawn é
A little boy treads deceptive terrain.
Lonely and uncharted, reality has not touched it.
It isnââ¬â¢t home ââ¬â but itââ¬â¢s where his heart remains.
He closed his eyes as his eardrums mimicked the swaying rhythm of trees.
Buried his feet under the tickling hot sands,
Smiling softly as his skin was kissed by the brisk breeze.
Faint smells of orchids and aloe brush rushed in without delay.
Far from the pungency of cheap plastic and latex,
Not the smell of the hospital corridor reeking of death and decay.
He smiled as he heard the crisp chirping of robin birds as they took flight.
Soothing sounds - not of the incessant beeping of his respirator.
Away from the abrasive hollers and neighboring cries which resonated at night.
The golden hills hugged a blue chalky sky,
The air itself was imbued by verses of verve and vitality.
Not ventilated oxygen where each and every molecule was sterilized.
And for once his mind was not undone by disquiet ââ¬â
The dark concaves of pain could not take custody over him
Hurt did not seize his joints and his bones did not erupt in riot
He stretched his fragile body upon soft grass,
An improvement from that old bed fixed upon metal and brass.
He savored the island fruit with his own mouth, no tubes penetrated his navel.
The usual assortment of drugs did not take their position on a table.
He used to cry watching boys his age on the chopping block.
The patients in his ward often did not make it to adulthood.
Pondering his fate, he would stay awake ââ¬â staring at the clock ââ¬â
Unable to sleep, shuddering in his sheets from sheer shock.
But today he will watch the calming tide,
Wiping away tears and pushing his worry aside.
Eventually came sunset as the gold hills dimmed to purple,
So did his heart sink and his liver gurgle.
As the day ends, so he returns to familiar struggles and hurdles.
He awoke in his usual bed sheets, wringing his face in his hand.
Close to his mental manacles, but far from his island in the sand.
