Feed The Children

The jar fell to the ground. It didn't break, mind you. Things don't shatter anymore.

The masks are hung dusty on the wall, and yet I'm not sure you can see me.

Disappointed. And its settled into perfect. Like a day at the beach, the most amazing sand castle of your childhood, almost as high as you are, and the tide is coming in and you can feel the tension building up inside you, so you squash it, stomp it, level it, before mother nature gets the chance.

Is the child still sitting on the beach, I wonder. Or has she finally grown up and out of surf, sand and sunburn. No skin left to touch, just pink, aloe and naked under a fan.

My breath is old. My memories are older. Mutant offspring of an idle brain. I sit down deep inside my void, safe within the barriers of winter walls and cowardice, and ache at the image of your eyes.

I'm missing. Find me.

Somewhere in these pages. These fingers stained crayola red and green. Christmas isn't christmas if your space if empty.

He'll feed the masses, I'll go hungry.