Austin McCarron's 'Stolen Child'

The Stolen Child

I am the stolen child,
peasant of air,
blue thighed,
with my gift of spring,
who plays with animals of light.

In crowded cities owners
of death pay me in trances.
I shine like the sun of blood.
Outcasts with blind stories
stare at my religions.

I find a way made of coarse
rope and steel convulsions.
I stand on a platform without eyes.  
I share in the fate of broken revelations.

I fall like smoke out of unknown stars,
treading water in a sea of crimes.
All around me I search for silver
spires and masks of hidden races.
Turning, I find my soul, floating
past me, red with painted sounds.

*Austin McCarron says: I'm from New Zealand but have lived in London for many years.  I've appeared in numerous small press magazines in the U.K., France and the U.S.A. over the past five years.

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