Harvest

My neighbor’s little child, whose ear was made of stone and feet as swift as deer toward mischief. This child, whose heart was a clay shield no bomb of morals could penetrate. Many words of goodwill spoken fell behind those cold walls. His tongue, a sharpened blade that tore the hearts of the brave; a mouth that dared to preach what’s right. This child now sits in confinement, pondering the cost of not listening a payment made in the cyclic return of all the lessons skipped. I am that child, whose journey ended before it began a neighbor to my own parents, alone and forgotten. The harvest of all I have sown.