A shell for the Children

in the green and believing in the blue. cooling and heating a blurred mix mass, shadow wrestling finding their form mimics my own. moves are repeated as they first occur, finding in the dirt fingers at the foot of the round. mirrored,misfitted,and broken having the line of chalk turning to dust as the vapor gathers at the edges, digging at the pale hands feeling the stale rubbery palms. falling pouring onto the freckled pages of cheeks. tasting the ever blossoming tin man in the hole, depressed down and covered in dirt. taking fire to the face and feeling the sting from the hit that has yet to come. pressure builds the top is steaming clinking left and right. uncovering the rag-doll man, sun turning honey to a sticky mess. golden and sweet it causes even the baker to frustration. having the hallway out of the ground all to me and myself feels unusually nostalgic. minds melting with body, honey to tea. keeping with the sun i rise for the second time. clouds in front of me dirt to the right. NO to the left. yes the left side has much more grit mud and infestation festering in the wall. pulling and self propelling the boy from the man, clutching the toys and dreams keeping them close, i bring forth the new corps that knows more than mortal. feeling the warm ... golden liquid flowing down throughout the veins. consuming the dry chalk turning it to past for the children so as to have something to mold to, to jell to.