Broken plastic men
Left for dead, collecting dust
On a closet floor

One opens an eye...
Groggy, beaten, sans an arm,
Breathes the moldy air

Gingerly he climbs
Down the pile of paperbacks
He'd been sleeping on

He wears blue armor,
Half-stained purple from the sun
He once lived beneath

It's been a decade
Since growing hands dropped him here,
Since his replacement

The others are still.
He squints hard, but only sees
Shadows, silhouettes.

Now he stands, shaking,
Grabs the closet door with his
Jointless phalanges

What's beyond the gate?
Light bleeds through each crack and crevasse...
Something beautiful

He still remembers
The birdsongs of summer and
Asphalt battlefields.
Last edited by flame843 at Sep 25, 2009,