There he was, in the middle
of what was his sandbox.
The child eremite.
Crazy and alone
his rubicund face
was like a colored stone.
He sat legs crossed
hands out to the sky,
as he moaned a painful cry.
Did he want to die?
His sandbox was a myriad desert,
nothing but sun,
he was an egg in the frying pan.
His ritual continued with shaking hands,
and a loud noise
that was his voice.
No other children came
nor would they dare
for this was of his choosing
life losing.
The child had come to play
in his own sadistic way.
To tune out the world
and leave what was and what might be.
To come here, the sandbox
a place where you are free
of mind, spirit and soul.
Where the past is no more,
and to exit is impossible
because there is no door.