People, Places & Purgatory

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A burning carousel that housed children's laughter, tumbles to the ground.

Amidst a rainfall so treacherous children cannot see the sky from the day.

Children born into a world where they are not cared for, live in fear and debauchery.

Small town  on a stretch of land that the people own. Isolated, not forgotten but all around abandoned.  Many houses with doors strengthened off their hinges line the unpaved streets.  Appliances lit a fire and left out on the road. Clothing not hung on wire, yet sprawled upon the land.

Toys, not played with.
Toys, with broken parts.
Toys, that have no memory of care.
Toys, eaten by mammals that are driven by the wind.

This is what people call home.

These children grow but stay stunted. The effects of intoxication run wildly amongst friends. Who in turn become lovers and mingle turns to chime. Dime store paper bag lunches become a thing of the past as futures lay cold in the hands of gas. Families become torn and addiction feral, these children become nestled in all kinds of peril.

They occupy these homes that line the unpaved streets and mislead one another of what love and sex may mean.
More children come and they play in the ruin and their children sum up to be very little.

This is what people call home.

The stunted being that can be called of age end up in places some thought of as cage. Whether this be imprisonment an institution that may, a rhyme without coin is little in pay.
Stunted they are, in places newly called home.

Daily some of these children seek pleasure in escaping their pasts. One day or two days turn into years at last. Mixing now pleasure with fun becomes love undone. Their daily joy is seeking new toys in ruins no different then that place they call home.

It is said that anyone who abuses drugs is at risk for stunting their emotional growth; because they often hold onto behaviours that are not very mature.
For many addicts a deep emotional trauma stems from their childhood. A place people call home.

The opportunity to experience these people and all their might, comes dauntingly at first sight. I sense the sadness and gloom as I walk through their rooms, no joy live here just sorrow and fear. We attempt or I attempt to be loving as I may, it comes at no cost to their every day. I watch as they fumble through daily tasks. Seeking their next hope in some empty flask.

Three siblings grew up on these roads unpaved. One grew tired and moved away. Another found love through someone who yearned for something better than he had been given or learned.
The third sister got halted as she discovered a drug that malted into a pipe. This pipe would become her every day hype. Her face would swell as she continuously fell. Her appearance changed drastically and her body went through hell!
Years would go buy and her memory would fade, of days she used to find happiness in play.
She would bare two children of her own, locked in their mind they didn't condone. Children forever halted in play, they had no future thank you mother May!!

Long hours of life passed like stones jumping up from the road. Daily a reminder of a story once told. Three sisters at play made the littlest steal a snack cart one glorious fine day. A golf course where they were raised, on a land that was catastrophic in natures of a way. A first taste in danger, but she always liked play.

They spoke of this on the day she was to be buried in the ground. A soul lost and never to be found.
Tears fell heavy.
Parents mourned, some scorned. Over a child who was raised that way. This is what people call home.

Her home, a few dishes. Clothing and makeup. No real prized possessions. No pictures of her children, her family her life. Memories lost in a stunted mind.
Life wasn't kind!
May, went blind.
An angel she was at her last all hallows eve past. A reminder for her niece from the wand she cast. Waving it around with innocence bare. I swear I could see her smile and glare.
Her home empty of life, no different then rife. As she looked in the mirror and held the knife.

It was December, May!
No children at play, as I drove through the town where toys randomly lay.
I can't help it cry as I wonder why this all happens this way?

Flowers up, photos hung. Memories gathered as the drummers sung. Called upon home, better than this.
Goodnight May, I said that day!

Shine down upon your girls always May!