Caution: wet floor. Left slippery still
by the overspills of heavy hearts
like little cups forgotten in pelting rain.
Here, a boy stands, face hidden in hands,
his breath but a whimper that lingers
behind each drop of his despair, each one so free
to leak through the cracks of his fingers.
Caution: wet floor. The broken dam still stands;
a pool of bruises at his feet, so big and blue
that his slightest turn, his slightest twist, amiss,
lands the boy slipping, downcast as fast as thirsty waterfalls.
But the slip sounds no crash; a mere splash
as the floor melts before him like thawing ice:
a clumsy dive into an ocean of woe.
The boy flails in the water and thrashes for air,
submerged by the surge of salty waves:
wet fire to his eyes, burning away.
He chokes on heavy gulps of misery
that sink his chest with weight impressed,
deeper and deeper into the abyss.
The boy falls asleep on the seabed floor,
roused by the sweet sounds of those he adores,
but the taste of his own tears is sweeter
and easier on the tongue than any answer he could utter.
So he rests in the piteous waters known so well
and watches lifebuoys float away; farewell.
At his throne, Poseidon waits
for any man to claim his home is harder a place.