Peter's Plight

Neverland was perfect, peaceful,
Devoid of imperfect people.
When a soul ventures there, it may never land.
A boy can stay there and never become a man.

Sparkling waters don't occupy glasses, but rather pools of tranquility.
Peaks of land don't explode into fits of volcanic anger, but instead provide Peter's house with stability.
His safe place; for Neverland was safe.
But Peter's imagination was displaced.

For once when Peter's soul took a stroll among the clouds,
Cannonballs fired; aggressive. Loud.
Try as Peter might,
He could not avoid the cannonballs' wicked flight.

He could not fly fast enough,
Wasn't man enough. Couldn't be tough.
Those malicious, metallic touches were insistent.
Immune to resistance.

Left black and blue bruises, like unwanted kisses on his skin.
They cut him to his core, but how could a mere boy defeat a villain?
The man with a hook for a hand,
The hook that landed on Peter's delicate cheek like a back-hand.

Peter's soul flitted and floated round,
looking for a spot to land, safe and sound.
He grappled with cannons for what seemed a lifetime,
but time doesn't really pass in Peter's mind.

Because in reality, Neverland is make believe.
It's where you go when you need to escape but you can't leave.
Where pixie dust tends to be shot up the nose,
And not everything can be untangled with a mermaid's comb.

You may stay young, but you don't stay strong.
Neverland is where you get sent when you don't belong.
You run, retreat, your heart can't deal with what's been done.
You fly to Neverland, or your mouth makes love to a gun.

It's a defense. Peter never asked for this.
For words hitting like blows; for the fists.
Peter's mind rested for years and years.
Doctors aghast, parents in tears.

In the end, Peter didn't even understand why
He fell asleep a boy, but woke up about to die.
Tubes fell from his veins, fluid pumping to his brain.
He looked out the hospital window and noticed it had begun to rain.

As drops dripped down the window sill,
Peter lay uncomfortably in his bed. Staring, still.
"Peter, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"
Peter was silent, eyes following a passing car.

"No." He answered at long last.
He saw the calendar. How many years had passed.
The crocodile's clock seemed to have been quite shit.
"But it doesn't matter much, does it?"

Peter began to close his eyes.
He finally remembered the beatings, how he couldn't even cry.
Because only boys cried, never men.
And then Peter's soul returned to Neverland once again.