Tuesday, 14 August 2012

XII. 23

He is an angel with perfect skin yet faulty vision. His birthday today. 23. Vulnerable, silly, the quaintest way of seeing the world. Old fashioned, like a loving grandfather, in his charm. I would have him read me story after story with his soothing voice that covers the spectrum of emotions so carelessly, effortlessly. He elicits my smile, one that reaches my eyes. He is like a campfire that people want to gather around to warm themselves. Not a raging fire that burns the skin and causes smokey harassment to the eyes, but a gentle steady vulnerable one, likely to be snuffed out with the wrong kind of weather or bad conditions. I see he is unique, I see an important future for this child man. He rouses in me warrior like feelings of protection. I would fight those who seek to dampen the warmth of his soul. Get my already gnarled dry hands dirty. I have fallen so far from my path already that I cannot return and be the inspiration to people that I once hoped to be. I have become corrupt. Let him have a life like the one I once dreamed of, a life of honour, should he chose. Let him rise like a mythical tree. I would climb into the arms of that tree like a baby if I could and touch its gentle healing strength but I am afraid of sapping its life source with my greed. No, instead I wish to be his fairy godmother in black mascara.

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