The night rattles out
spoons in a sky of silverware
the dark colored over and your face
as true as the crystal and china
treasures in my chest, keeps its form
even still, now, as you turn inward
and try to pry the warped doors
of under years, the ancient base ball
bat and catch wonder, the hidden figurines
that in your magic saved you from
your own something.
We are all a little less alive
having survived any childhood, anywhere,
but yours is a face unwilling, scared without
the ghosts and magic
undercover of sky,
you turn as always, away, unable.
And today my heart keeps upright
holding nothing but its small prayer
for you-- stand in the light and let yourself see.
For all things born of this world
bear a mark of hope
for the heart's devotion,
we are mostly unwilling to endure the brutality
of accepting what we are, what we could be
should we stand long enough in devotion to know.