Of Small Hours and Racing Thoughts

it was

Water trails down mounds
Of dark brown flesh, turning
Dry love into wet mourning.
Crisp black cloth wounds tight
On the waist. Stiff, tense, can't
Move a muscle bones held in
Place. Inhale, exhale. Holding
On by a thread.

It was a boy,
Fifteen, off in his own world.
Dreaming of another, loving
Of another. Cold bones in
A box shoved in the dirt. What
A pity.

It was handsome to
Beautiful wearing drapes that
Gleamed like the universe one
Minute. Cut up, broken down,
Bruised, withered, the next.

It was abandoned in purity, not
Even tasting maturity. Clutching
The stuffed toy with a grip so
Tight, the knuckles locked in
Place.

It was the world, a starving,
Stuttering, stained place.
Harboring pain like
A ship filled with wounded
Soldiers.