I know him all too well
His face, for ever freckled with stardust...


As a little boy
he talked, and talked
Yet he spoke
only to people holding bolt cutters,
who greased their hair back
and drove their cars solely when
the sun started to dip on the far horizon

Eventually his lips froze in silence
while his blue eyes still melted those
who laid theirs on his
Gathering the wrong knowledge
as childhood fled from him
he slowly, became one of them…

Teachers, parents, his closest friends
could not foresee his changing demeanor,
as they all bathed in
warm soothing ignorance
Cleansing their conscience
Never wondering, asking questions…

He held his first gun
at age nine
He used his second knife
on the birthday of his best friend,
pointing his little finger afterwards
until the innocent were banished

And I, I still watch him
every day, every night
My goggles never deceive me
And yes, he knows I know
about his façade
The true ‘little boy’

Yet my wheelchair
keeps my courage captive
The slice of cake he brings every Sunday
bribes my soul into oblivion
But most of all
his bluish eyes, mesmerise

And as I’m getting older
dementia takes over
Every day I forget his lies,
his victims and their cries
to which the next morning
I once more throw my lonely dice

Though someday I will not forget,
probably to my own surprise,
about the stardust freckled ‘little boy’
and his hidden darkened disguise...