literature

Baby

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Literature Text

There stand the little statues,
Melting like fading rain into cracked graves,
Like gifts from
actors who never seem to show.
Grass acts as Mother to the young stones
braced to the cold touch of child's curious fingers,
But only one lone stone lies
off on the edge
of the crying yard,
Where thick trees stretch out from behind
torn barbed fence
to scratch at the one lonely stone, as if to offer a hug for a grave
hidden in dead twigs.


Baby, they called him.
The oldest and smallest of the many stones, all still
lined up like soldiers in the
lull of autumn fighting –
something like a hunched old man with a
young man's mind and thudding heart,
all grime and mossy letters (the few of which he wears),
and only
one date
played on his breast.


An April babe, witness to only one shower,
But it wasn't the last he ever saw; he sees plenty.
Nearest to the neglected blades that
cling to him for comfort,
farthest from the vines of interlocking, shiny stones
that splay so near to the quick and well-travelled
road that runs
so achingly close, but too far
to touch.
He is the old and firm,
over the hill though he never lived

a day.
...
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Comments3
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chewyraezen's avatar
so sad and achingly beautiful.