Toddler's chair

Little pale toddler in the arched up wooden chair.
Splinters wait yet grinding under this child's skin.
Dead since the war its why they carry wire around their stomachs.
Cannot bear to sway the birthright of fresh nurturing vomit.

Their pale lips want to kiss those soon to slashed wrists into a bloody smile.
Unending love toward the head that will nudge away without apologies to the gun.
Just don't flee from them to sleep in green satined uniforms.

Eternal rainmaking screams is the baby's razor language.
The air you forever breath belongs to them in the world.
The dentist's sin strap the toddler down but it refuses to stop them to crawl in the chair.
Keep the alerted hair alive use the begging for a mere sign of struggle.

Anthem of angels is no way out their realistic bound to wait for their guardians to return.
Maturated flickering eyelids...they are nowhere near salvation its just unheard of.
The mental intercom of voices play a toddlers lullaby backward whenever the chair decides to spin.
Its a incomplete jigsaw with blood stained cotton images to fill the void.