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