Little Boy

He slept in hangers beneath corrugated clouds,

Shrouds of suffocated tension

Echo through iron chasms

And burst into incoherent sounds.

But he does not wake;

Since birth, stowed away on ships

Born of Indianapolis

He, the vagrant of war

Undisturbed by the thick air

Now rests in this new theatre,

Intentionally hidden from the sight

Of humanity’s flaws.

Whispers blistered the air;

What should they do with the little boy

That nobody knew?

Such thoughts were in lieu of the sanity of those

That had made them, that then played them

Over and over again.

Soon enough though the question was answered

And with the advancement of the morn

The city which unknowingly held him

Now blindly repelled him

And banished him to the oblivion

Of an alien dawn.

But still, he did not wake from his sleep.

The deep rumble of others

That poured from the sky

Did not stir him to rise.

For ages he waited until such a time

That his morning of freedom would come.

Here, the Manhattan child does not belong

Amongst the throng of the murderous shells

Of men.

But what was his crime?

For do not forget that he had never hurt anyone,

Yet.

Then, he awoke,

His captors had finally raised him,

Relieving the boy of his bonds that he bore

Since his birth.

Now here, on the roof of the earth it was clear;

The boy being here was intentional

And his purpose was simply; to fall. And thus,

With the push of a button

And the turn of a key,

The Manhattan child, to the holding of breath

Was thrown from the heat of a blue morning sky
And fell to his legendary death.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin