A/N: Written for the Diversity Writing Challenge, f1 - poetry collection, and for the 100 Lists Challenge, 25s list 3 (prompt for this poem is #015 - competition).


The Fraction on a Diary's Page
VIII. lost

They are three lost children in his world.

They march like adventurers,
draw their swords like warriors
but they quake in their boots
and their arrows are marshmallow-tipped.

It can't be helped. Children are children:
young and inexperienced and flies
caught in his spider web.

Children can be such awfully
dangerous seeds if left to grow.

They are three children in his world
and children grow, but not here,
not in the world of dreams
where only the darkness
of eternity glows.

There are three children in his world
and they're doomed to wander, lost,
forever as they march on,
thinking they can advance,
thinking they can level up
and find the final boss
and the endgame.

There is no endgame. Rather
there are three children in a cage
and he is the gaoler.