Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

living in a world gone mad

cozy evenings spent in a happy home

replaced with cold nights shivering in a damp cave

his nervous mother said it would keep them safe

from the bombs that fell from the skies

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

struggling in a world gone mad

family dinners shared each day

replaced with meager crumbs and rotting fruit

his weary mother said it was all they had

now that war raged in their small village

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

shattered in a world gone mad

sheltered family life that once was

replaced with fervent plans of escape

his determined mother said it must be be done

now that soldiers were on the prowl

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

frantic in a world gone mad

leisurely Sunday drives

replaced with an old cart filled with manure

his broken-hearted mother said he must go

now that terror had reached their doorstep

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

surviving in a world gone mad

hiding alone under the pungent piles covered with straw

abandoning all he ever knew

his resolute mother said to look for the man with the broken matchsticks

now that he was on his way to a better life

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

alone in a world gone mad

traveling in the darkness on unfamiliar paths

as the donkey brayed and trudged on

his mother’s words ringing in his ears

as he deserted all he ever knew

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

persevering in a world gone mad

emerged from the noxious compost womb

as the farmer whistled and disappeared into the night

his mother’s voice in his head urging him to seek the man

as he searched the bustling crowd

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

focused in a world gone mad

cautiously approaching dashing commuters boarding trains

searching for a stranger in an old hat and broken matches

his mother’s faraway hands somehow guiding him

to the man casually standing by the newspaper stand

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

prevailing in a world gone mad

slinking toward the unassuming man

unlit cigar and broken matches in his hand

his mother’s distant eyes somehow confirming his identity

as three more boys emerged from the darkness

 

Just a boy of eleven or maybe twelve

lucky in a world gone mad

rescued from a doomed future

by a man with broken matches

and a band of lost boys

the boy’s mother’s tears christening him with hope

in a place safe from the ravages of war

 

 

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/second-hand-stories/