09 April 2009


It smells like the hot, wet tarmac,
The sensual, heavy smell, the
Fertility of the earth oozing through
The cracks.

And we flew over its surface
Young and shining and
Unaware of this adult torture
The sick games we play.
When a boy was just a boy and not
An enemy, a counterpart in
These bizarre dances,
These ever shrinking circles.
We stalk around each other.

And as the years slip by,
The puzzle fills in, the
Truth weighs us down, the ins
And outs, the mechanics.
Until one day,
We’re not children any more.

A Collaborative work. Poem by Helen Woodroof, Illustration by myself.

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