His face is a blur these days, akin to a 12 week fetus scan – smoky edges, grey and uncertain
No voice anymore, silence in this quiet abyss. His mischievous character still haunts me, his feral days of high jinks and madness were part of his charm
Golden hair and steely blue eyes, although I hear he’s receding now, just like his grandfather
He was gifted a piece of the moon by an adoring girlfriend, she’s now disappeared, just like all the others’
The beauties came and went in a flash, until…the harridan cast her spell upon the weakest element of his soul
She cursed him with her offer of lust, no man can refuse. Locked on to her bony hands, the grip like a vice…got him!
The Roman harlot has won the race – he; dragging his feet, always last in her race of control and power. She plays the victim and promises taking him to dizzy heights
Poor child, he’s lost. The road is long, perpetual, how will he know the way back?
Will a robin tweet and sing or flowers bloom early for spring. Will an Angel appear in the night, giving him hope and inner foresight
For now, I’m told by a celestial being – when the boy becomes a man, his hand will fit the glove of courage and return to his umbilical roots.