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Pallor of the sin I have harbored

Taints fingertips of every friend and lover

That bequeaths a tad kindness upon my heart,

No matter how subtle it may be.

For they can’t see the raven

Holding my hands behind my back.

Or the little orphan girl wearing a mask

Of what the dying look like.

So they feed me scraps of apprehension

And they blue me into a land of opiates –

All colorful and bone-ash tasty.

It’s food for the orphan in me – can’t you tell?

Mothering a wild flower is easier

When the roots are still young;

But once the orphan grows to be a

Strong shadow, it cannot be uprooted.

Hence I take the orphan to a park

And decide to puncture her shadowy figurine

Weighing down on my mind’s ledge; but under

The flicker of serendipity, she fades away.

Have I lost her, though I to myself in the caverns.

But every now and then, the orphan in me pays me a visit

To paint me a picture of what it is like growing up

In a body not nurtured by the hand of life, but Death.

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