I wrote the following poem in June, and then chickened out and deleted because I felt that no one understood it. But your poem is about a similar thing so I hope that putting it here under yours is ok. If its not let me know and I'll delete it. I did wait a few days so as not to hijack your poem. What you wrote is just so clear that I am hoping it will help people understand my convoluted story.
Scene begins, zoom-in
tree level, bright sky
pan down along the trunks
to ground level
a backyard shed at the edge of the woods
Afternoon sun lights two figures against the shed
A small boy in the grip of a big one
both eight, but the little one a small eight
and the big one would be a giant for ten.
The large one is obviously a jock
Stereotypically spiky blond hair,
a little remaining baby fat in the face --
Think the bullies in "The Neverending Story."
The little one could be a waif in Victorian London
With bony cheeks that are red and swollen.
The small one's eyes are reaching to the woods
knowing if he could cross the line, leave the backyard,
he'd be safe.
And now a third boy enters the picture.
Fighting his way out from beneath the skin
of the small one.
The camera focuses not on what the big one is doing
to the little one
But on the eyes that suddenly open on the boy's chest
Right below his neck bone.
In an instant, the eyes have become a face
and then a full head
Straining to break free from the little boy's body.
This new boy is more wild than the other two
Tanned skin and longer hair
More of an animal
Born of the desire to leave the yard.
With a strain, his hands reach up from nowhere
to push himself out of his heart.
And in a flash he is free,
sprinting naked through the woods,
leaving the shell of the other boy
limp in the arms of the big one.
He runs, crashing through underbrush
The thorns on the ground poking into his newborn flesh
The dirt under his feet is soft and cold and free
The air is warm and damp and his
He doesn't turn around
There is nothing back there he wants
He runs through a deep wood
Farther than any map says those woods go
His strong but young legs cramp
Sweat trickles down, blinding his left eye
The salt stinging him victoriously
Because it means he is alive
His lanky arms reach out
And swing up over a Sycamore branch
a second later and he is balanced in a tree
His strong legs bent and tense on a sturdy white limb.
He scans the darkening brush below for any threats
He glances at the blood-soaked sky
His eyes dart from tree to tree to tree
Making note of his new home.
Thundarr the Thundercat he calls himself
Joining two fictional characters into one
As one real boy split in two.
In time, that name will collapse to T'kut
As he rejects all things
From the world of men.
And the little boy awakes to find the day over
And the space between the trees and the shed is gone
And whenever his mind wanders back to it
T'kut comes back
T'kut ran for a long time. Decades. Until he and the little boy met again and became a team. But that's a different story. He goes by a different name now, but he still keeps an eye on the fastest way out of any situation. And he still prefers the woods to the suburbs.
Edited by Jacob S (10/17/13 06:32 AM)
Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.