They stole him away when she was pondering a thing of ten thousand thoughts for the week that was supposed to have been in it – she aside he vehemently bound back together and ultimately enthused
To make tangible sense of this shell-shocking world leant precariously toward the edge of mere oblivion
He – him, here, right about now only about to miraculously disappear and fallen by the wayside soon as her meandering hand decided to clasp at something far less important and all of it simply for the bolster of the stray buck which mischievously substituted itself for his tiny little nimble-quick fingers again
Turned treacherously toward Godawful displeasure aside corrupt understanding, only ever to be professionally misunderstood by the chosen few who will continue to rigorously steal these little men’s terracotta souls way – typically unglazed – to someplace extra-habitual till utterly misrepresented again
Twenty years too late and the liquid sedation has taken hold of her distanced hands above her worthless soul, now – that steady, sturdy twist of alcohol remembrance when pressed dislodgeable against her cigarette-infested lips loom larger than any life left
Which will courageously continue midst agonising anticipation – to speak for the day that her son inevitably opts upon returning…
To home, or dust… or whichever comes first
Here she sits beside the 3-foot coffin that typically awaits a black-and-blue body of once-upon a paralysed degree of argumentative bones