The Writer's Forum

Act I

Charlie Beckett was born under a crucifix
made of hemlock tree,
born amid opportunities.
And surrounded by guidance and love,
Charlie was set on their way

Although books had been burned
by Nazis and popes,
Charlie was quite erudite,
but saw only tails and never heads.
He had studied schools of thought, fallacies and truth:
theoretic orgasms, premature ejaculations -
Charlie made their way.

When Charlie’s wing tips of crystal
had grown beyond his innocence,
he could no longer resist
and childish feathers flew up,
as charlie made his way.

He crashed amidst red african sand
when a crack of reality
shattered the myth.
The cold of the stars
crept slowly towards his dreams
and Charlie nearly cried.

But when he met an antique fox,
skies turned gold and grey
and they walked side by side
silently;
to a shiny oasis
where Charlie drank from prudence all night
and felt at home for now.

The fox was never waiting
but drawing vivid, invisble paintings
of conversations and landscapes
on septic canvas -
drawing Charlie’s way.

‘Let your heart of isotopes
fluoresce in the dark,
when angels yell
the promise of the never ending
half-life of eden’ the fox said at last,
before he left to die
among distant purple and blue trees
with gaseous fruits
and charlie made his way.