spectre

There, up on the undulating backdrop
of my worst fears, I realised
the one fear to haunt my everlasting
worries. No clothes for a rich boy's home?
The deed was done, the memory
etched upon the mind of an eventually wasting
body, slowly circling, spiralling towards,
beckoning, wooing,
the centre of its universe, wherein it was
conceived, so unglamorous, a foot
from where the little boy sat and spoke.
Still the haunting innocence lasts, gnawing
at scraps of skin shed since time began.
Scraps of dead cells inherited
from a protected skeleton
embalmed within layers of desires
for a simple life, of a few cars, and a family,
a wife to cook, a son to rear,
a few hundred men to command and disallow
from letting passage to
clothes fit for a rich boy's home.