An icicle pierced a molten heart
And flesh was frozen at the touch.
A mother’s love disbands in dust
A future formed from the desperate loss.
What feeble things we are
To dare the ties of love.
To chafe the bonds that keep us safe.
Would he have been sheltered within loving arms?
Would he be made human and humbled by this state?
Could we, trusting, naïve, have seen the desperate in him?
Would we have, determined, believing, stopped him?
Is he Tom, or worse?
Did we seal his fate?
Was child’s play always
More to him than just a game?