Child Of The Crypt

Calling from depths of another's future, stepping noise- lessly through cellars of decrepit silence, masks of seriousness etched in granite faces. Taking time to do everything in exacting order, bushels of antiquity branched in all directions and bent out of shape. Rigidly outlasting boundaries imaginarily made as a child, drawn and sketched in books of memories, outlasting the melodies and nursery rhymes. Suspecting delayed meanings secreted, out of sight, music boxes playing when opened, ballerinas dancing exotically on toes of porcelain. Rearranging thoughts of anger quietly inside of a little mind, undeveloped, cast into adult picture books, taken out to look at, never. Growing up with finality of everyday living, seeking noth- ing beyond what each day silently would bring, imagination wishing, dancing, singing, talking. Racing around corners, hoping to find something nice, being disappointed time after time, suspecting all along that nothing would ever come to light. While a child of hidden delight is brought nightly through tunnels of unwanted desire, cautioned, threatened, to be forever quiet. Never allowed to speak even when spoken to or would be- come like the child in the crypt, eternally silent, never more to live the life it was given.