Stealy Temple

Stealy Temple

The simple sound of a baby’s cry
Looking in the blue, green, or brown eyes
The feeling of the kicking. The punch.
Connecting in the warmth of her heart
A hand print: the permanent imprint.
The destination to light— unseen.
Oh what pain to see all the children,
The journey cut short, the light is reached—
But with closed eyes, never to open.

Leaving the train, a baby and her mother, 
From the hand around her heart, to holding her thumb.

The fingertip embrace,
I see the love in the brown, or is it green eyes?
To feel the love, to feel that embrace,
But the blood rushes from her palms.
The sacrifice was made; she is in the light—
Her eyes, closed.
I press my hand against the fogged window,
The outline of my palm, where the mother is walking.
Walking to the home where the baby sleeps,

The still train starts to roll along the tracks.
I look through the imprint of my hand on the window,
The handprint, that could have been hers.

Staring through the warm spot,
The train still but always moving.
Night as black as the emptiness and chill in my heart.
The warmth like a red fire against the cold glass—
Burning a hole through my being as I look through.
The warmth must feel nice on the cold glass,
I once remember what that was like.
It was a choice, I made it. But I shouldn’t have. 
Stolen.

Thief and a victim— one in the same.
Robbing from myself;
But also robbed the world of joy.
The train is moving now.
It was always moving and always will be.
The moment when the window was fogged returns.
The handprint disappears,
The warmth no longer against the glass which turns to cold steel.
It was always steel,
The day I became a thief.