Seven seconds.
A moment for silence,
For silken silhouettes
Of limbs too concise
And hips too wide
To ever become marble.
Eight minutes envelop
An embryonic shadow of a boy,
Acknowledged only by
His negative spaces,
His lacking outlines,
The blurring of emptiness
Where the dust should lie.
Nine hours submerge
Between brittle veils
Of vicious netting;
An expectation of futures
That, even in present,
Never quite caught him up.
Ten Days become
Weeks as his lids shift,
Straining to adapt
Inside fickle florets;
Encasing his intrigues
To simplistic boundaries
He never knew to question.
Eleven months since
He first realised.
Twelve years until
He first admits
