Child Of The Crypt Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Calling from depths of another's future, stepping noise-
lessly through cellars of decrepit silence, masks of
seriousness etched in granite faces.

Taking time to do everything in exacting order, bushels
of antiquity branched in all directions and bent out of
shape.

Rigidly outlasting boundaries imaginarily made as a child,
drawn and sketched in books of memories, outlasting the
melodies and nursery rhymes.

Suspecting delayed meanings secreted, out of sight, music
boxes playing when opened, ballerinas dancing exotically
on toes of porcelain.

Rearranging thoughts of anger quietly inside of a little
mind, undeveloped, cast into adult picture books, taken
out to look at, never.

Growing up with finality of everyday living, seeking noth-
ing beyond what each day silently would bring, imagination
wishing, dancing, singing, talking.

Racing around corners, hoping to find something nice, being
disappointed time after time, suspecting all along that
nothing would ever come to light.

While a child of hidden delight is brought nightly through
tunnels of unwanted desire, cautioned, threatened, to be
forever quiet.

Never allowed to speak even when spoken to or would be-
come like the child in the crypt, eternally silent, never
more to live the life it was given.