Never    did I    dream
A pile of dead          baby
Would              delight             me,
But their       carcasses’
Sweet                            stench
Resurrected the              splendid smell   of  
    Childhood               cotton  candy.

They didn’t ask       to be        pulled from      peace;
Born  into        arduous           existence        
In the ceiling above                  my bed—
The bed of a man                    who will burn
Himself        to cinders           just to             seduce
  A                   constantly rotting     dream of                        silence.
It                                  isn’t their fault
—    they are worried  —
Scraping               the skeleton of         home,
My skull,         searching for a                        neuron
Untouched by                                                 Terror. 

Maybe if I       climbed             into their bed,
With matches      and       intention
I would set them                                    both down
And                             join the raccoons
—        start scratching too,
Grinding my fingers               into shriveled,   burnt matches  —
Dying to reach        the            baby  me below
Who somehow       always      slept so                                    soundly
Not hearing                 the world                                inside.



Thomas Ferriello is a recent graduate from the University of North Florida where he studied English and Creative Writing. He reads, writes, and tries to play the piano so people will think he is cultured. It’s yet to work.