Of Tink, #126

Yes Peter, sweet Peter,
sad and lonely pharaoh
of your own property,
here bogged down without your
pyramid of friends, work,
lost boys to cower down
at your feet and entreat
for a bit of ever
youthful magic, that spice
you tote around, pepper
on each person you meet.

Peter, you have ignored
your charges, your lovely
true friend who’ll tell you
not what you long be told
but the small light of truth,
who will tender to you
what lies have been spreading
around the campfire
you’ve come to have faith in
as it rose with each poke.

Peter, you’ve neglected
your sage, her God’s honest
advice, you have dismissed
her as a silly girl,
a foolish light who just
wants from you the one thing
you long not to part with,
those sweet young unkissed cheeks,
their pale tragedy.
She loves you, yes, but asks,
not what you think she asks.

Peter, the one who’s rose
and felled over with you
is not a mystery,
it’s not your knife she wants,
nor to be your wife. No,
what she wishes from you
does no trauma to you
or to your wandering,
she is not asking you
to grow up, believe me.

Tink, the guiltless girl who
in your darkest hour
couried you light, and who
you sloughed off as merely
one of the boys for your,
all too predictable,
Wendy, her unending
row of family traumas,
her erratic comings,
her confusing musings
and constant neediness.

Tink, whom you abandoned
for a passing flutter
that you, perhaps, fathomed
would lapse by tomorrow
and then you could get back
to the family business
of being a lost boy,
and playing the pastimes
of control and madness,
indians and pirates.

Tink, scout for your new hunt,
with a new party, who
ask for no prize from you,
safe in her own longing
and a kind-hearted friend,
who’s designs on your form
are nothing much more than
to shadow your every
foolish and boyish whim,
to keep her eyes peeled
for a sort of danger.

Tink, whom you’ve forgotten
or traded for the kiss
of a stitch to entice
your mischievous self
down off of the ceiling
and pin itself back on
your wardrobe, and for that
you suffer invasion
by a foreign body,
an endless agony.

Peter, you are ailing,
felled apart at the seams,
unable to cradle
a thought in your noggin
longer than a flicker
of light, your cohesion
slipping, and the only
one who might piece you back
together, and hold you
together, and keep you
together, left again.

Tink, who in your sickness,
would materialize
at your bed, on a bed
of leaves where you pretend
everyone’s not dying,
just fine, who in the dark
of your own craziness
would still shine a soft light
over your weary, lithe,
dying form, still smiling.

Tink, who will never die,
never move on beyond
the hush of your body,
who needs none to believe
to love you, no child
to clap for her as she
is clapping for you. Yes,
you have unmasked her ruse,
called her bluff and know now
the clapping was a ploy
for you, they were clapping

for you, Peter. And you
never once said thank you,
never once whispered, Tink,
I love you, cause your blind
eyes could only narrow
and indict her somehow
for your present disease
that renders you always
alone, and in love with
what’s left of your longing.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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