Water trickles off magenta brambles
Weaving through the thorns
His sockless feet are numb to the gentle bloody pinpricks
That others cross with raging storms
He crouches in the moonlit grass
His pants breathing in the dew
And takes a piece of fallen lava
Cooled, ancient, ink in hue
He closes his eyes and lets it breathe
This tiny slice of iridescence
And with a gentle flick of the boy's swollen wrist
He forgets his adolescence