Janet Bingham Poet Prose Poetry

The Sand Box

Skeletons in the children's sand box speak,
trapped in the thoughts of growing minds,
screaming out their own painful realities,
grieving for the lost who never understood
what truth is, who never wanted to return
to the phases of their own childhood.
Is no one ever free?
Does no one ever think?
Is no one ever responsible?
Time moves quickly
with people involved in their own deceptions.
No one has time for the children.
When life becomes unbearable,
the children lash out
with hidden cruelties.
Their own parents, now almost ripe for graveyards
smile without flesh.  Long ago they realized
the problems of living would keep their children
and themselves from enjoying lasting happiness.
They abused their children and themselves,
but skeletons don't care.
Winter leaves are falling now in wet pools of rain,
seeping deep into the sand box and onto the ground.
Parents run with their children to find shelter.
Only the earth is satisfied.

Janet Marie Bingham

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