tale of a woodcutter's son

day's break
and little boys play in the mud
soiling pant suits that never once
should have been placed on the frame of a man to be
but they play
the sun bakes mud to clay
the toys find brevity
in motion once found with fluidity
of what they once dreamt to be
and the small boys sensibility's
have left with a shuddered shoulder
lost again
with no light but shorts
not warm enough
not long enough
not bright enough
to light the way
from the darkness of the night
seeking to consume the lives
of little boys caked in mud
lost in the middle of the night
looking for thier toys
and the warmth found in a home
where mothers breast is the serenity
of what once could thoughts be
but now it never will
so peace is found in the dead of night
the cellos play and strange men lurk between the trees
looking for boys caked in mud