Son

A beautiful boy.

At first glance, he's average. Brown hair, brown eyes. Skinny. Not like the Aryan surfer gods that girls usually love. His hair doesn't twinkle with a light from above. Maybe a little tall but when push comes to shove, He's normal. But his eyes, I realised, aren't really brown. But the colour of presidential car windows. One way light, so you're always in his sight, and he's never in yours. Watching the world from tinted glass. and his hair is the colour of scorched earth. I thought once that he looked like the son of Hades. Tall dark, and kinda handsome, with collarbones sharp enough to kill, and hands just made for wielding a scythe. But his father isn't death; he's just dead. And maybe that's why his skin is the colour of bone; Because the death has grown into him.

Author's Note

Note that this is not a love poem, but a reflection on a boy I once knew.