A poem

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Knees clasped, throat dry,

the boy clutched his soul

in the shadows.

“The infernal beasts

want to scratch my eyes out!”

His mother’s ears listened

but her gaze could not find

the foul dangers to view.

“You see what is not there,”

she soothed, yet he cried into

the night, unable to rest.

Heart locked, anger wide,

the man fought the mob

on the sidewalk.

“The asylum loons

want to pluck my heart out!”

His kind wife’s ears heard him

but her eyes could not find

the foul dangers to view.

“You see what is not there,”

she soothed, yet he wailed into

each day, unable to rest.

Body frail, wounds raw,

the old-timer lashed out

at the nurses.

“The pocket-witches

want to steal my blue-sky!”

His doctor’s mind could not grasp

the foul dangers to view.

“You see what is not there,”

she soothed, but the old man wept into

the casket, unable to rest.

Written by

Writer, poet, storyteller. https://muckrack.com/bridget-webber-1 Author Page Amazon https://tinyurl.com/y2cgqhgv

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