The Kids' Stratagem

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man discovers all the time that has been lost and returns to his hometown in his dreams to see the broken kids destroy their lives.

Submitted: November 10, 2010

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Submitted: November 10, 2010

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Insomnia is a lonely drug.
I’m sitting beside myself on the floor,
blue lights dance about the room,
as my eyes deceive me.
Sometimes I can’t believe this feeling.
I glance down at my emaciated body,
my knees pulled up almost to my chest,
my arms securing myself,
as I lack my other half to hold me together.

The darkness of my room surrounds and envelops a central light,
by which I cry as I remember.
I’m moving past the wasted hours,
and now I’m ready to stop, but I can’t.

As memories relapse,
I’m standing in a doorway in front of a dim sunset.
A dusty car sits outside,
orange light refracts through the windshield,
and is caught by the leaves of a nearby palm tree,
as if by open hands.

I look around the center room of the house,
then turn and step out onto the brick porch way.
In the month of may,
these suburban streets are singing and screaming,
of children, pure and wrong alike.
So much pain for so many so young,
they spin, jump, yell, and run under the early summer sun.
One dances up to me,
asking where the owner of the house has disappeared to.
I reply that I’m not sure,
the escaping lie burns my already dry lips.

The kids want to know so bad
how to get out of here,
but all of them have always known
that it’s better not to know.

The same child comes knocking on my door,
but I’d rather be alone than act like I care.
I can’t sleep at night with the broken kids,
out on the street, their dreams are my responsibility
and my nightmares are a result of my own apathy.

Plants crack the street and wind around my legs,
between the cobblestones, as I stand in disbelief.
Stricken with pain, the tormented and the punished
fall to love, as a girl screams out it’s in your mind,
not your heart.

The girl climbs a weeping tree, crying age and dust.
The rosy flash of the suburban sun shines through the branches.
With a glimmer in her smile, her contests with fate threaten the night.
Black luster penetrates her soul, sinking lies and synthesizing bleak stratagems.

The boy finds a charm on a dark night,
splitting the ignorance between asleep and a sleep.
With a voltage in his hands, he defines his generation
through a single shock to the foundation.
Standing before me, as the sun blazes through his scarlet hair,
the girl focuses as light confuses her storming blood.

Lies pass through mouths, numbed with pain.
The dying star in the city sky stops providing light for the lost.
Religion crumbles and fades in their eyes,
neighbors lose importance,
friends unintentionally become enemies,
and enemies, friends.
Knowledge dies as black-hearted mirrors lie to their greatest of admirers.

I watched the end of a century, the end of a culture.
Deep blue in my heart, I’ve started to care.
Signs in the city remind me of the kids,
and my mind plays tricks on me as I pack up my things.
The sky changes colors over the road as I return home,
home to the suburbs where my past resides in the hearts of the children.
The kids left life behind and began living as if death starts from birth.
They accepted pride and vanity, shattering the mirrors of their image-obsessed past.


© Copyright 2019 Ezra Sharpe. All rights reserved.

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