lost boys,

I seem to like them broken.

battered  ones,

I tend to find them shattered

like china and cold glass.

lost boys,

oh! how I love them

beautiful work of art

all my love for art,

all my hate for work

still work always finds me.

Lost boys,

they take my kisses

and hand me shadows of fathers

who lived in pictures and forgotten dates.

These boys,

lost boys,

are always wandering,

off to never land, in search of Father lands

back with empty lands and questions

peter pan couldn’t answer.

so they gift me these questions.

would he stay?

why didn’t he show up?

why didn’t he come back for me?

lost boys,

these boys waited on  doorsteps

so when they leave ,

I sit on mine and wait thier return

I lose my self trying to find them

then find the next, as he wanders….

these lost boys


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