Notes slid slow;
Distorted voice hidden,
past turned about, then drifting.
No one calls as you fall back,
beyond dreams of today,
to the gift of childhood ways.
Crawling along branches,
high above the orphanage grass.
All things must pass, but not here.
No one sees and no one knows,
Living with eyes closed,
living with fear.
Salvation Army strikes a tune,
Soon it will be time to go.
Culled from a “good” book,
are all things bright, beautiful as snow?
Swing high and then fall low.
“We’ll be late. Must go soon”
She’s powdering her face in the tiny back room.
“There in a moment John.”
Then they were gone,
among a chatter of voices, sun lit lawns.
Outsiders gaze at those neatly sewn,
stitched into the collars of their fate.
Too late, it’s far too late.
“Let me take you down cus I’m going to”
through a hidden gate
beyond high walls of routine days
to play a strangely languid note,
slurred, blurring, interred in long ago
where a dream once hung
caught between waking and sleeping.