with broken bodies.
and burnt children.
the air inside my box was sweeter.
while stealing across the sea.
coastline is the border crossed.
no rippling fjords of the North-
those were childish things,
barely formed when I saw them.
the first time I left.
a place, for want of finishing.
all failure seared to memory.
not mine, abandoned, now no one’s get.
free to find another life if not.
for fences and unbearble wet heat.
will ever-crushed, he held out a hand.
anyway, and returned the next night though.
I snarled like a feral thing, kindness.
the smallest part of life before.
repeated touch and the hope of purpose.