Rain Man
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
Copyright © Sean Kibble | Year Posted 2025
|