Children of the Lost
They are mere fragments of what they were.
The yellowing pages of a much-loved book
They drift like autumn leaves,
Losing their pigmentation
They personify yellow, brown, rust,
Their souls now repeat forgotten melodies-
They are the once were.
All that remains is them, them, them,
Who are they now but broken souls?
No one’s children, ghosts out of time,
Clinging to one another for comfort,
Once again, the womb of life swallows them whole,
And spits them out.
Whole.
But are they?
Look at the wandering opaque spirits,
Warning those who follow,
Young and flowerless; -young and tired,
Peas in a pod, sides to a coin,
They play life the same.
Museums of opportunity;
Here hopelessness has found a home,
Their blood ties make them falter early,
Like bubbles they rise and burst-
Rusting children.
Together they remain encased in the past,
A past that has flowed into the present and
So; they feel their futures already written.
There are no more chances for those with no choice.
Past selves forgotten.
Who would they have become?
Children of the lost;
Their reflections echo in the lonely moments,
They are the low hanging clouds,
The bare reaching branches,
Living skeletons,
Leeched of colour,
Floating high until their inevitable fall.
Icarian descendants,
Crashing, tumbling to a soaking ground,
Careful, lest they drench another soul,
They fall-free-free-falling,
Life is a code they cannot crack,
Young and flowerless-young, and tired,
Peas in a pod, sides to a coin,
So, they spin and spin and spin,
Harder to distinguish from the air.
To some their demise is picturesque,
They are art; pretty, pitiful beings,
Their delicate constitutions, eyes of pain,
Oh, poor children…
How could you be more than you are?
Memory escapes,
Escape breeds desperation.
Was it their destiny to be swept away,
Scattered to the prevailing winds?
But they are the children of the lost.
They were made to last,
They stick, they cling to life.
An unbreakable teether, an unbreakable bond,
Now they are glasses edge, crunching leaves, fraying clouds,
Subsets of subsets.
We are the children of the lost.
Young and flowerless- young, and tired,
Peas in a pod, sides to a coin,
We play life the same.
Dangerously.
WORDS: Eve Delaney
