They met in class—not by chance.
She, the little girl with the auburn hair,
the pale white skin, porcelain—without flaw.
He, the plastic little boy, tongue tied and aloof,
manufactured prestige—little man sans briefcase.
His eyes transfixed upon her ruby hair and lips,
watch her as she breathes life into him.
Her soft hands, welcome the man—
destroy the child.
How much the dream has wavered,
inevitable collapse! Such strain,
such time and hope lost. It seems so much like an instant,
an instant that played out over years and years.
Incalculable days and hours, minutes vanishing to never again
exist. Charon, drag me to the other side—
fire burning without heat. Embers flare and fall and resound
amidst the mighty swell!
Release me, release me!
For a child cries and cries and cries. She must answer the call.
He cannot, his ears are muted for him, he wants to reach out
but his arms are not big enough to cross such a distance,
they cannot cross the even bigger chasm of time.
Wicked valley, stretching out from the now to the then,
punishing, as tomorrow becomes yesterday
and yesterday is gone.
Do not cry out little child,
for mother will always be there.