When The Child Cried Out
In the early Winter morn, in the Seargent's footsteps,
They followed on the burned, barren earth,
A place so strange, but so familiar, he looked around,
A sign lies, on the naked land, "St. George Vill.", it read,
In a frenzy, he wondered at the town that made him,
Now buried in its own grave,
While his Comrades rested their tired legs,
He ran, like a deer from its predator, hither and thither,
"Frederick Stewart" it read on the sign, the house's only identity,
The house looked as if a canvas drenched and stomped,
He looked on, as still as a windless night,
A pat of a small hand, he felt on his thigh, a little boy,
About two, neither a drop fell nor did he smile,
When the world saw two years, the town saw a hundred, he thought,
He embraced the boy, kissed on his cheeks, but,
No cry or laughter was heard, only stillness,
He took the boy inside the gloomy home, if,
It was home anymore, sat at the dining table,
He looked on at the hanging pictures, perhaps,
The only proof of its inhabitants,
In a picture, a boy laughs, on the same table,
A cake infront, as people heard clapping,
He looks at the wide smile of the picture,
And the deafening, loud silence of the boy,
"Are you from around here?", no answers heard,
"What is your name?", silence answered back,
The boy, now descended from his chair, walked,
His eyes towards him, fingers pointing the ground,
A watch fixed with a large button, it seemed,
" A time machine my father made for me",
The watch made him relive those bygone days,
"When you feel afraid, this is your way home"
He remembers his father's words,
A toy it was, now became a window,
Through which whispers could be heard,
Sweet, haunting and lamenting whispers,
But, as if something clicked in him too,
He ran towards the thing, his chair falling in neglect,
He wore the watch and clicked the button frantically,
" WHY DOESN'T IT WORK!?", he cried as two drops rolled down,
The boy as if awoken, now let out a cry,
The silence was finally broken.
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