So here we are:
the layers peel off to expose
the tender skin of a child.
who crawled amidst the stinging heat
of a thousand pressing eyes.
Who never cried at real things.
Who for so long
built up his body with his own restless hands –
a structure hollowed out by the river of his own desire,
so his bones groaned with the passing years.
Who crumbled beneath the weight
of his own trying and needing,
the feeding of his own creature hunger.
Who noticed the tiny, snowflake voice,
which made him collapse
is a lone tree standing in the middle of a field
kneeling to touch the soil he birthed from.
Remembering again the flesh
that will never cease to be his own.
Remembering for the first time
that growing should never mean
forgetting what lies beneath
all of this.