Thomas.

He was a child, not a boy,
He was a dreamer, not a poet



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He was the one who would wake up screaming
After nightmares in which he was floating with the stars
He was the one who would check beneath his bed
To make sure the memories weren’t there

[But they were hiding among the dust bunnies]



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He was the one who was a stone beneath slender
Because he could never eat alone
He was the one who kept his fringe cut long
So that his reflection could never stare at him

[But the mirror framed his picture]



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He was the one who always kept the lights on
So that it looked like someone lived
He was the one who fell asleep listening to the radio
So that he couldn’t hear the voices

[But they whispered in his dreams]



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He was the one who painted pictures with his eyes closed
So that he could never see what he was missing
He was the one who dreamed of seeing the world
But who feared leaving the house

[Because it had swallowed him years ago]



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He was the one who lived through his dreams
And yearned to put them in words
He was the one found dead, covered in ink
Surrounded by notebooks of poems

[But none of them were finished]



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Because he was a dreamer, not a poet