The slant, with the tipped point and crumbling edge
where those who broke so long ago go to meet the other.
There you'll meet the oddest souls, and fractured hearts,
but those that died so long ago they're all but forgotten.

It's strange, you think, that they exist,
not knowing of our existence.
That they can sit and play in one world
while physically occupying another.

You try to peer into blue-gray eyes
that evade your gaze all the while.
The head is ducked, the eyes downcast
and at your touch they recoil and back away.

Talk to them; they won't respond.
Your words mean naught to them.
In the slant where they reside,
they can deal with their own mind.

The child within the slant exists alone inside a box.
The keeper locks them in at night, with the hardwood walls.
The slant tips and the child sits with an expression unchanged.
And his shrunken mold and sunken soul betray the wandering eyes.

It's strange, you think, that they exist,
not needing our existence.
That their eyes can roam and mind explore
while we watch and stare, not welcome in their world.


Dedicated to autistic children worldwide and the organizations that help them (this poem is not fact - this is a representation of emotion and momentary thoughts).