Building's Roman

Free Verse Poetics

He came billowing into the room, clutching his tattered blue backpack.

The one made of cloth that has the big hole near the handle.

His sweat dampened bangs plastered to his freckled forehead.

His raised index finger with its dirty bed is positioned accusatorially.

His eyes fixated down its tiny barrel,

screams burst from under their watery demeanor.

                                He doesn’t want to live here anymore,

           he doesn’t like it anymore.

                           Take me home!

His voice is, for a moment, synced with those coming from the kitchen.

                A harmony of three,

                                up to the percussion blast.

                Now two hold the note,

                                till the percussion comes in again.

Only the whispers of one remain.

The strained murmurs of the unflinching little boy,

gazing adamantly at the crucifix above his bed.

Author's Note

First piece in over a year. Unsure of how I feel about it.