PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Forest of Blonde twists bounce and he shouts,

he's an armada or a cowboy or a shark.

He's a force of nature, speeding down the orphanage hallways in a flash.

He's not really here, he's dreaming, he's manic, he's everywhere, he's exhausting.

He can't possibly be real,

Nothing's as real and tangible as Raymond,

donning rags and dirt and rushing, pulsing thoughts

that charge his body forward and propel him to attack.

Son of a whore, he is.

Scum, but unknowing and uncaring of that stigma.

He has a brother too, Little Tommy, who's a Mute.

He's rarely as explosive and hyperactive as Raymond.

Food is a rarity. It died with his mother.

He searched for water in the sewers of the vast house,

Battling time and guards on his journey,

Battling sickness, Battling the cold, Battling forever.

Raymond's discovered poisonous plants and evil hags.

He saved a princess from her tower twice now,

and, bless him, he even polished his own armour.

Raymond is the last human alive,

left to his own devices for five slow minutes,

Able to move oceans and quash forests and ignite the sky,

He's occupied, and we should dread the day he grows up.