The cracked surface of aged bark
Gives character to the drudging oak.
A weighty shell of thick protection for future years
Stripped off only by the peck of a hairy,
The nails of a squirrel,
Or the devastation of a wailing storm.
Just as trees can never forget,
Neither can we.
The clouds cry out in anger
For the lost boys.
Those stuck in the sky
Watching unfolding events
Before moving on,
Before coming back.
They are the lives we never lived.
We that are the living
And we that are also the dead.
An energy of exponential growth
Builds up in the atmosphere
Showing off a forgotten power
As the lost boys burning desire for life,
Caked with acidic regret,
Falls to the earth as drops of rain
Disguising the lost boys vessel
In a cape of simple molecules.
These past lives
Bubble to the earth’s crust
And visit waking eyes
Who become the lost boy’s bearers.
The bearers mistake their possession
For an eruption of uncontrollable delusions
Bursting out of a single point
The lost boys cling to this earthly life
While punched back into the cloudy abyss
By the clenched fist of the bearer’s protectors –
An absent minded lover
Or devoted parent,
An ambitious professor,
Or a dimensionless blade of grass.
These thorns – intruder and protector alike –
Poke and prod the bearer
From points unknown
And often repressed then ignored,
For the sensation of lost boys
Can be more powerful
Than the aroma of mom’s cooking
Floating in midair.
Given enough time
The loneliness of unfulfilled dreams-
And caskets six feet under –
Can interlace with the spirit of any bearer.
Bringing novel creations for the future
With souls intertwined
That never fully forgive each other
For having to compromise.