The Broken Ones ( a poem and bit of light relief from the novel)

The Broken Ones

The child draws

Wall upon wall

Of pictures

Big person pierces

Big person touches

Big person ignores

Its cries and moves over

The body of a child

Stealing it's soul

Owning it

Devouring it

Then

Discarding it

Like some broken toy

It is no longer a treasured thing

No longer  loved

Just shattered fragments

Of play.

When blood finds its child

Wild in its pain, it tries

To heal the precious worlds.

It tries and tries

It weeps and weeps

It cries and cries

But it is no use

For some broken toys

Their pieces run like sand

Between the fingers that try to fix

The fingers that try to knit together

The cloth torn

And some just wait

To be reborn.

Others have clockwork energy

Fueled by fierce fires

Others just give up

And become the walking dead

Frozen over like winter lakes

They grimace through the motions

Of life

Dancers on glaciers of ice

Dead inside

But outside so nice.

There is no hope

There is no way to cope

Except to die

Inside out.

Hope is to be

Reborn

In another time

Another life.

When you are locked in

A strait jacket of pain

There is little gain.