A lone warrior scampers
To the backyard swing. Swinging low and high,
While in the other corner of town,
The church is hunted by children
Who grew up in its ranks, pointing the finger.
A cassock hangs from a closet
While inside a larger closet, hides
A lifetime of desire, clogged
Beneath, detonating onto a fragile frame.
Peter, the boy, who cried wolf so many times,
Is now a hero, while the church walls
They still cast a shadow on a little
Playground next door, while Peter holds
His darkness in a little room that has a light
Which is switched on and off,
A hub that was never supposed to be a dungeon.
In Prokofiev’s masterpiece, there’s a bird
That cannot fly, a duck that cannot swim,
While a little boy that can do neither,
Walked down a throat’s nave
To be manhandled like the Eucharist host.
The French horn played his part rising an octave
While the double bass played at its lowest possible tone.
It was hardly a duet of any sort.
Years later, justice would be served.
The bass drum marched with the violin,
A trap was sprung for the wolf.
And still, that haunting day, which was supposed
To be ideally a ribbon cutting ceremony
With someone his age, now makes him shiver with fear.
The hero, the boy, now grown up, walks the streets
With girls passing him by, and still, he can’t seem to
Explain why every girl seems innocuous,
Something bland from far.
He would later find out how true
Cinnamon was, and how it was different
From a pod of vanilla. A boy, his age, kissed him one day
Seated in the back seat of his car,
And in that defining moment, he learnt the deft art
Of how to volunteer his lips,
To finally kiss – gently kiss back.