In the father’s bag of lackluster delights.
Photos, oh so still, of kindness and flowered sprites.
Hand picked pixels for a child’s plight.
Thus, a student, I became.
Chiseled out of a teachers harsh lessons.
Everything beyond the four hollowed doors were overcast by rain.
Infantile in thought, somehow, beauty remained.
In the age of living dangerously,
I aspired to hold the paper cut art…to his throat.
It was only within my black and white discoveries…
that I witnessed…intermittently, madness and hatred…
Into a world of what is conceived…
and, what is best left for pretend.