I’m writing to the child, whose name cannot be told,

For although he is nameless,

When he turns and sees this,

He will have grown old,

 

But no matter his age! Or the length of her hair,

In the eyes of the darkness, all things seem fair,

The watcher, the listener, the beholder of truth,

Melting and dismembering any liar’s couth,

 

But this is in the eyes of the darkness,

 

In the eyes of the child, nothing is true,

The stalker, the whisperer, the warping hue,

Covers their eyes even though they’re wide open,

Ice slivering through veins, vessels lay frozen,

The grotesque presence, overwhelmingly hunched,

 

Just a heap of linens, piled and bunched.

 

When the sun clamors over the eternal horizon,

Relief doesn’t flood, worry only widens,

This child, this child, this innocent creature,

Pure, bright, and mortal, save for one slight feature,

Like a white canvas, a slate, an uncharred green leaf,

Its delicate stature, rockable with grief,

Is vulnerable to the world, to the house, to the heart,

Where life began, where love should start.

 

But sometimes demons gorge themselves with crime,

And seize contorted forms, like yours and mine.

 

Lightning! Lightning! Striking and Striking,

 

The ones they’ve tricked under their care,

Leaving their once green leaf, crackled and bare,

Not gone, not done with life’s continuum,

But battles will be fought to overcome the minimum.

 

Those charred by the imposters--those replacers of guardians,

Now fear every corner, make ants--scorpions,

 

For there is no relief! No refuge to seek,

How can they hide in their own homes, stay submissive, stay meek.

 

When a house is but a structure, no light inside,

With only darkness there, strained to bide

Her time simply watching, recording, unable to do,

With no light or known savior emerging from the blue,

A mute darkness blankets the child, trying to hide him from the cold,

Trying so desperately to protect! To protect this dear child,

From those known demon aggressors, masters of beguile.