A little man in a hat sits beside a pond, sketching nature with his black khol chalk, creating the shadows from the sun with the blunt edges
and I stroll by, hands in my pockets
my lips are supple
a giggley child bends like the moon to kiss the sun,
shrieking with glee, and doesn't notice me, and I'm content
She sees no stencil, and her little hands stretch leagues more beyond the sun than mine do.
My boundary is fire laced and crackling,
and more than the tips of my fingers have been scorched and destroyed,
leathery thick covering, tough and Grey with those charcoal shadows.
I glance over only to find that birds will always beg for crumbs, and find that one day they swallowed a scrap of metal instead.
