Devoted Ghost

Poetry

shame wrapped desire
pointed finger,
cursed name.

his joy betrayal,
named him abused.
words meant to bruise,
hold in stasis.

as if scars received
are proof of another’s
superiority.

his love given
twisted by projection,
always accused 
of manipulation.

and he thought it true
he held the frame,
a devoted ghost
chained.

he fell on his bed
curled up cursing
his name waiting
for the day
he would finally summon
fell courage
and whisper:
take away the pain.

but then...

another came
who saw the blinking child,
pink hands pressed
against frozen glass,
threadbare soul
tattered soles
longing to be-- 

let in.

for just a taste of warmth
just a moment he wanted,
something to confirm
that Love can exist.

a scent of hope
like ham on Christmas.
to carry with him,
not as a promise--
no, that had been 
resolved long ago.

this was not for him.
he was sure.
impossible.

just a smell
a whiff of Love,
it would have to be enough
to see him grow old
through never-ending winters
of bitter cold.

but then,
a miracle.

miracle?
She said stay.

stay?
you’re home now.

home?
come be warm.

warm?
let it sink in.

you will never be gone again.
you are seen.

seen?
you’ve found a friend.

friend?

he crawls from the corner now
begins to trust.

slowly.
     quietly.
          timidly.

in that terrifying space,
between hope

hope?
and confirmation.

that a hand can do more
than box the ears.

that it can scratch
away the years,
welcome the tears.

tears?

that it bids the boy
to eat,
   to sleep,
       to rest his head--

head?
and remember joy.

joy?