Chevelle Wernsmann

A child's cries heard throught darkened streets; he has no where to run too and sometimes nothing to eat. If you listen real closely, so closely he's here, you can see all of his face and then he just seems to dissapear. A child's voice fades into the cracks, never to hear him, never to get him back. Punished by people, who could not possible love; they think sent from hell and not God up above.
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A torrent of words
in a low guttural sound.
Limbs flailing in air,
trying to find an escape.
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From the depths of our darkest hours.
To the very nature of our survival.
We stand
growing, living, changing
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Atop a pedestal I sit, he's throwing gifts at my feet. A trade for hiding secrets, a frown within my face. I am his world, his martyr, the joy in his embrace. To look into his darkness, is to feel his chilling face. I am his crown his glory, a ribbon he thought he'd won. A prize for many days, but days I had were none. Atop a pedestal I sit, he's building up the walls. To make sure I can't climb upon them and free myself at all. He built himself a fortress, a pedestal upon the top.
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I was that calmer sound,
that twisted through the town's water;
intersecting days
by heavy fields of strange memories.
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