When you were just small,
you and I and Icy D. Bear
would lie in bed at day's end.
We would talk
until your silence told me
that you were slipping off
into your dreams,
but I would remain,
listening to your breath
become even,
until I knew you were
asleep and safe.
That was the warmest place
I have ever been.
Now you are nineteen,
a grown man
whom fate and madness
have taken from me.
I imagine you now,
knocking at life's door,
demanding your due,
as youth and strength require.
How I pray, my little/large son,
against my certain knowledge
of the world's cruelty and caprice,
that every door you touch
opens smoothly before you,
that all your sleep
may be warm and safe,
and that someday
your heart will soften
and admit me
once again into your dreams.
- mce
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