Those moments,

forgotten and brushed aside by the modern day.

Left trembling, whimpering silently in dark,

Lost and forgotten,

Subconsciously missed.

The unlucky child who will never be found.

I see them every day.

As the quiet world of glass,

Is shattered by the pattering water,

Falling.

As the lighthouse revolves eternally,

Reality only where the light graces to fall.

Lighting across their posters, stapled on the walls.

I watch them fall away.

As people flee from unseen dangers,

Bartering playing cards and leaving broken dolls in the road.

I follow them as the wind blows them so far away.

Left to rot in a filthy gutter.

I feel the wind pierce my chest,

Leaving ice in my veins as the stagnance stains the paper.

Creeping its tendrils across the surface,

The filth of humanity left to decay and soak.

And when its invitation arrives I fear to attend, but am too eager not to,

And I leave as it curls up in watery flames.

And when I arrive it’s gone,

Else I tremble with primal fear,

Or am numb with disappointment.

And in that gutter it remains,

Those moments long forgotten,

Illegible to the oblivious, crumbling world,

But for “Missing” stenciled across the top.