Fallen Through the Cracks
Wasting of the Seed
I am a Stradivarius - with tin and tarnished strings;
my bow, a broken, jagged twig, or grating granite rod.
I am the Mona Lisa, her eyes no longer smiling,
Groucho glasses hiding - mocking! - Da Vinci's magic wand.
I am an egg - such potential - yet preciously fragile
balanced atop head of pin, atop an urban high-rise.
A little girl or boy - a fresh, sprouting seed so agile
skips along a path that, for some, so long their fate denies.
Innocence soon lost: "step on a crack, break your mother's back"
purity is doomed - corrupted! - by adulthood's ego,
compelled by unadulterated cov'ring of thy tracks:
our turn to taste the apple thus disrupted as we grow.
I was the egg, whose faith and fate - by any pressure - swayed
my shell, so crushed, its pieces cover up the cracked pavement.
I WAS a Stradivarius, played, swayed and so betrayed
by stone (cold) Mason. Let pure childhood thwart this enslavement!