Sometimes we scream just to here our voice. -M. Taggart
A child screams but no one does a thing besides scream back to grow up. Patience is a virtue unless you’re an adult who wishes it upon a child to be just, like, them,. eventually the child becomes a young person remembering having screamed with hurt. But this child won’t be the same. This child will be the one adult to not ignore the screaming. And the hills walk on without looking down, so they say.
Life is a funny thing that crawls on your face when you wish it to be over. Gathering sentiment as it forces your mouth open while screaming down your throat. You can’t wake up when the option is gone.
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We walk into the shadow of death to pull one wounded child from its depths, to find another daft man standing in the corner. Leaves are shuffling outside my window. A man with a golden heart is gone. Another stands in a room looking. Don’t block me. I am here and at least I have my fingers. The man in the room standing, looking daft, asks for silence because silences never questions. Never says a damn word. The girl with the golden brow would have cared for a word. And the boy with the covers pulled tight would have cared for the same.
Drink the wine little boy. Drink it. Look at the lines, little boy. The box fills you well. Have you run along the walls? Have you opened the front door? A man walks toward you. Climb the curtain. He wants a question from you. The man. With the purple. We can’t tell about the purple because it’ll give it all away. A boy finds a marble. The marble is clear with a stripe. The boy asks the marble, ‘What color is this stripe. I can’t see colors.’ The marble replies, ‘Watch me roll. Watch me spit into your mouth the color I choose while you scream for help. You’ll do nothing.’
copyright 2017 -M. Taggart
The boy was exhausted. Again, he picked his head to look. It hurt him to be both asleep and not. Is he alone? Soon, he knew, the door would open. Time to shower. Time to shower. Time to shadow. Time to disappear. Can we push the shadow with the whisper? Does it count to pour this down? Or, are we to always let the steam rise and the door lock and the scream shutter.
-M. Taggart copyright 2017
The silent hole listened as a child screamed endlessly for help. One child at a time. Blood. Throats worn away with scribbling effect. A bottle stood near. Again the floor had eyes. Eventually it’ll shake loose and more will see. Eventually a child becomes much more.
-M. Taggart copyright 2016