Orwell: The little boy I never met

The rocks he kicks with his feet

Fall into place without any purpose.

He steps into the sand and buries pebbles he finds.

The pebbles and rocks mutter his name.

Orwell.

Socks filled with dirt,

Shoes collecting memories.

A little baby boy,

Named by a mother and her love for Animal Farm.

It was the last book his Grandpa told her to read before he died.

He belongs to the forest,

Amoungst the trees,

To you and to the Earth.

Just him, just for now.

His living are dead, but his inanimate are very alive.

He loves you but not himself.

He knows you but not himself.

How lost and silly he feels,

To be lost and in love with someone

Who doesn’t know he exists.

The irony.

Tucked in by the branches,

The owls watch over him.

Bears give him shelter,

Lions watch his back

His family are animals,

Stuffed inanimate toys.

His bed is a haystack,

Sometimes damp leaves,

Sometimes the fur of his mother.

Crickets and the hum of his family-

Steady breathing rocks him back to slumber.

Owl eyes glow like the moon.

I had a good day today,” he murmurs into her fur.

And when he awakes

He remembers his adventure,

The Bear’s soft fur,

The woods and the damp leaves,

The stories of the animals- the inanimate,

Which had only existed in his mind.

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