He curls at the sight: His world
ripped away from him
like a fresh hide.
Every memory a land mine; every
outstretched limb in bed
a phantom stab in the dark.
Once faeries and cuddlebears,
now silence and muddied air.
Trees have turned mushroom-feed.
No cute names dripping like nectar;
they tear into flesh
like murderous glowworms.
The forest is a cavern; every scent
a charred turbinate, like earth
blitzed to powdered sweat.
He cries floods, but nothing grows;
Only space-time and theorems
yet to fathom, scattered in dust.
But he must go on. His little feet,
stuck in many mires must
many-the-mile onward, must
make new promises, must
make anew and honest again.