Andrew,The Forgotten Child

I never sought the company of the unseen, yet they found me—"

"whispers in the twilight, footsteps in the silence, and a boy with golden hair, waiting to be remembered.

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"Andrew, the Forgotten Child"

The evening stretched in silent hues,

as I walked the path I always knew.

The world around was dim and still,

yet footsteps followed, soft but real.

I turned and saw him standing there,

a boy so small, yet strangely aware.

His golden hair caught twilight’s gleam,

his presence like a half-lost dream.

Short trousers, shirt with sleeves so neat,

suspenders clipped, his stance discreet.

Long white socks, polished shoes,

a child from time’s forgotten muse.

He gazed at me, eyes calm yet deep,

holding echoes of a pain so steep.

"Why do you follow?" I dared to say,

his voice was soft, yet did not sway.

"I want my story to be told,"

his whisper laced with echoes old.

"My family was taken, in war and strife,

but time has blurred the years of my life."

His past was lost, yet sorrow stayed,

a ghostly weight he never swayed.

Not seeking vengeance, nor restless woe,

only a wish—to not fade below.

I sighed and spoke, my voice so small,

"I cannot paint you, not at all.

My hands can’t trace you into art,

for I was never meant for that part."

He smiled, not with pain, but grace,

"You are a writer; words take my place.

Not every face needs paint to be,

if your words can remember me."

And so beneath the moon’s pale light,

I wrote his name into the night.

Andrew, the boy who longed to stay,

now forever carved in the words I say.

And if you read, if you recall,

know he was here, he lived at all.

For in these lines, his voice still speaks,

a child remembered, though time is bleak.

@poembyselly