Wednesday, October 17, 2012

The dusk coloured child

Why is it, he asked me,
that my stories
sometimes fall silent.
Why, he asked me, 
do they go unheard.
Why is it that sometimes
my hand is left unclenched,
unnoticed. 
And my questions are left 
unheeded, unanswered.
There are no waves rippling
on the surface.
No flowers dancing,
no carefree pebbles skipping,
no playful winds whistling
through the reeds dotting
the mucky, messy shores.
There is a quietness so deep 
that my feet quiver
when I decide to dive in.
There is a stillness so sad
that my hands shiver
when I decide to touch it.
Why is it that
every time I look in
I am confronted by eyes
staring back defiantly
like they have seen,
and understood, more
than they should have.
Why is it, 
he wanted to know.
So I looked him in the eye
and gave him the answer.
You can take the child
out of the shadows of dusk.
But it isn't so easy
to take the dusk 
out of the child. 


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