They called him wild although he hardly spoke.
Remote to them to breathe electric air.
He moaned in thought before the plastic broke.
A soundless pressure wound too tight to bear.
Each toy held codes he opened to translate.
He was not mean but simply born to ask.
No answers came from objects he’d ablate.
Limbs scattered wide aft each intrusive task.
The remnants piled in corners of the room.
In silence, as in graveyards of a kind.
On shelves lie things he swore not to inhume,
but questions still move restless through his mind.
At night he dreams of limbs and twisted wire.
Not wreckage, but a map of his desire
Life is based on just one crux.
It is trust, trust and just trust.
So easy to defile.
For it is most fragile.
Trust gives me passion to strive.
The power that will make me thrive.
For those, who don’t understand.
There’s no second chance, they are completely banned.
Yeah! To get it straight.
If the trust ablates.
For sure, rest is in dire straits.
YES! I'm not that fussed!
Why do you have to be so cussed?
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