Pebble in a River

I see you.
I see your sooty face swaying with the other crushed-up dandelions and orchids.
A small, bitter child swimming among the Olympian crowd.
Of those as elusive as the sun rising back up at noon,
Or the skill to lift that same sun like a seashell.
Why would anyone care about your crozzled corners or your charred skin?

In that aorta stream of talent, diligence and bravery
Lies the soot-smitten, blue-veined boy
With the rest of the rocks, sand and sediment.
Within the confines of his mind, he ponders.

Ponders about life beyond his shell.
Gnawing at the shackles of his cell, he could skim the light’s whiskered skin.

The light that braided and twirled.
The light that preached of sovereignty and prairie-grass freedom.
The light that swayed like a crystal-faceted chandelier.
Tugging at his barbed chains, his weary eyes and blacked-out wounds pry open.

I picked up his water-smoothed shell.
He had a face darker than the night sky could pray to ever become.
That boy is a misdirected fool.
Which is why we’re one and the same.