Sprawling in his roundness, curling like a little eight, he sits, fragrant with talc, cushioned on a cold floor, four walls surrounding, the whirring of a fan above, time makes no sense, time is an endless loop of sleeping, waking, eating, getting cajoled over. Little diaper prince, fixes an arresting gaze, captivating marble sheen eyes, do they see you at all, telling one from another, or is it just one great blur, this speedy passing of bombarded frames?
(Penned Dec 14, 2009)
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