Rusticated
The day life was given to a boy.
His eyes had been enveloped over the skyline.
Small boy, large hope, small boy, large home.
Before he had a chance to flourish,
He had been given a different purpose.
Nervous with courage to cherish.
He had been moved to another accommodation.
Rusticated to a new isolation.
Stationed upon different temptations.
Where he had no identification, but all surprises.
While in a stationary motive.
His mind became erosive.
Devoted to death, coated with no emotive.
He became an addict through rusticating.
The quiet and silence of his mind dictating.
His mind refused to fixate.
In the end he was a boy with no choice.
Rusticate to oblivion, a bowl of mistrust.
Until you drop dead into earth’s crust.
We all must move on without fuss.
Travel back to the boy’s first home, in tune.
Recovering the move, collecting his runes.
Copyright © Greg Wilcox | Year Posted 2017
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