Let him write

Brown school shirt and khaki pants,
Rubbing his left eye with his right hand
Picture him in a forward movement,
Hesitantly, with legs straddling across a pavement,
Grazing cigarette butts and a city dust he can’t see
Because his eyes, wet and swollen shed what he
Only wished a father could understand,
But his tongue would never dare to explain it.
Because on the other hand,
Their ears are shut tight to the silent pleas
Of ink across these pages.
For he wrote with the ambition of Kings and the wisdom of sages,
Who could promise us better tomorrows.
But in the hollows of his nervous stomach-
He digests their scorn,
And in the torment of this mental havoc,
Rebellion was born,
Not only to warn
Us of who he will become on the day after this one,
But to have his feet drag and his heartbeat to run,
Into a place, and at a pace that that caused it to stop.
Not only to stop, but to erupt- into a cold silence.
Because dead souls make no noise…
And so his silenced voice harmonizes with a Charlotte street breeze,
Picture him, distressed, stumbling and with weakened knees,
For in his hands are manuscripts that recorded every semibreve,
Quaver and Note that echoed the arrangement of his life story,
This young, dreary face intensely worried- about losing himself.
See the books and pages as they cascade into the bin,
One by one,
You need to see him for who he is
For he is your own son,
And you have punctuated his dreams with a full stop.