Memoirs of a Wallflower

XXVII. The Boy with the Pen and Book

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At a time when the Earth was bleak

and still recuperating

from wounds inflicted by her unworthy offspring,

lived the boy with the pen and book

who wanted to change the world;

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Young, unblemished and impeccably furnished

with water, blood and melanin

he sprung with the burning need

to undo the curses of his ancestors;

His eyes screamed purpose

and he wore confidently on his head

crowns made from clandestine desires

and unguarded benevolence.

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Now when I dig deeper into these blurry reflections

in search of that untamed soul

I only reap delicate but lethal fragments

of a time past,

so I arm myself with these words

in hopes that there's still a piece of him left in me —

that somehow he'll be vindicated —

that one day I'll be able to see

the face of the boy with the pen and book

smiling at me amidst the thorny hedges of time —

that somehow I'll be a hero and save his dying dreams,

but what's the point of saving something

if it doesn't want to be saved?

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