Vacant Child

Warm yellow sun beats down upon the head of one dark child
Who sits out on the rich green grass and stares but never smiles
His lips are parted slightly, his expression never wavers
He seems untouched by all the cares that tauntingly around him swirl
He has been called the vacant child.

So small and thin you can count his every rib
With belly swollen and dirty, cracked skin
His presence brings cruel words from those who are the 'perfect' child
Kind mothers though, with teary eyes, pity this small waif
Their words and gestures convey ever the same question
What should be done with this wretched child?

But nothing is done... for all are scared
This child to them is 'not right in the head'
So as warm summer days give way to bitter winds
This no one's child is left alone with whatever is in his 'empty head'
As he is seen, day after day, to them is not but the sitting dead

How little they know, those people who through him now stare!
He is not mourning, not moping, and he is fully 'there'.
His is, instead, a beautiful mind touched too strongly by his cares.
His belly empty, his body wastes away
But he is not unhappy, as day fades into day.
Instead, as he sits, he dreams the most wonderous tales.

Before him he sees not grass nor sterile stone structures
He does not notice the zombies who are humans who are pretending to care
No, this precious child simply sees a world of waking dreams.

He sees a family, all healthy and of good cheer
He sees puppet shows and hears bed-time stories
Watches hugs and witnesses parental love
He sees everything he's never had and it keeps him company
For this world is no match for the magic behind that ever-blank stare

Still, he never smiles, he never laughs or plays along
Because this child with his dreamer's mind is not really 'there'.
In his dreams, those things he sees, he's on the outside looking in
That family who gives sweet hugs, that child who eats his fill.

It is not him. He is not there.
For in his mind, the biggest thing, is the windows of a house.
A house so perfect that when laughter rings, it echoes from end to end.

And every dusk, as dreams away are tucked
He rises to his feet and walks that weathered path
It leads him back to a run-down house and inside a single bed
A pit stained black with charcoal holds faint warmth
The spiders, mice, and snakes provide him company every lonely night.
A few pieces of bred and rotten mutton are what he nibbles
Before climbing onto his quiltless, straw-made bed

Every morning, when he awakes, as his health does quickly fade
He concentrates upon that window-glass with determination.
He stares through it with eager eyes, fiercely imagining himself inside.
He wants so badly that child to be, to know love so deep.
He wants happiness to experience, a mother's love to see.
Then it happened, as was known, the snow came fiercely
And when dusk fell...the child never stood.

For in his mind, as death approached, he made a choice and gave it voice
Upon the glass he banged ferociously, and pleaded to be let inside
And as his final breath did slip away, he walked inside that happy day

This story does not end with him becoming the child he longed to be
But instead he was welcome with smiles and hugs, happily.
For they had seen him so wantingly watching
And prepared a place for that beautiful mind to at last have peace.

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Valnuary, in the year 400 AF.