The Children’s Hour

 

Turning, twisting, and wrenching away,
Dissolve, then reappear.
Not in Chalot or a viper pit,
Your room, top floor, in the rear.

A place bereft of childish joy,
A place that’s filled with tears.
Where ice cream tastes like castor oil
And probity disappears.

Your very private kinder-hell,
A too-exclusive club.
No dogs or girls may enter here.
No laughter and no love.

You’ve built a wall with anger boards
Nailed in place with fear.
You slip inside that secret space
And then you disappear.

I climb the stairs.
I speak your name.
But no trace can  I find
Of the child I once called happiness,
Of the boy who once was mine.

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