his heart's a thistle, sparse skin and dry. today, his eyes are moody blue when he is stuck in the room all day. the suffocation is real, like someone is stepping on his fragile chest, when all he wants to do is be a balloon, untied touching the sky. his tortured thoughts haunt him, a scar unseamed, a whispered scream.
during school's lunchbreak, he escapes with a walk around the block. there is a slight drizzle overhead, hint of cloudy night. the air is cool and damp, scent of trees soothing his nerves. in a corner, he sits down to watch the pigeons haggling over breadcrumbs. some grey pigeons stand overhead the wires and roof tops like sentinels looking down at the streets. an idea brews on his head, an image stretching into infinity of patterns. he takes his pen and draws what his mind is echoing, in fast paced strokes. for a few minutes, he is a river, gliding with fish and tadpoles, absorbed with his artwork. now he is a tiny insect, crawling diligently beneath layers of soil, grains and seeds. his fingers inked with markings, he smiles. his chest is all mushy now, filled with trills, caws and sunny leaves of a lost garden.
Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Prose Poem by host, Frank Hubeny ~ Try your hand in writing one when the pub opens at 3pm EST ~ Thanks for the visit ~