For the Boys Molested by Jerry Sandusky

 In the beginning of darknessNo one seesthat the wind blows trees Dusk Wind bends tree overBranches hang on air for supportOxygen slippers out of graspMotion stumps barkWind barks at stumpHowls like thunderRain pours down trunkWind ravages tree Paper is made from treePen move on paper rapid like windPen pokes hole in paperHoles mistaken for ballsPenn coaches ballPenn coach throws ball into holesHoles of treesBent over Trees know nothing of loveJust windIn darknessNo one praysbecause no one seesWind has raped the faith out of trees Children know not of innocenceWhen guardian angels break their wingsbut still want to ride their backsGod reignsBut that is not Him pouring from the shower faucetWhen the light goes off in the locker roomWind blows inRears his ugly head into rearHorned angelHeaven and hell look too much alikeI can’t tell a demon from first glanceEven if he’s been in practice for over ten yearsIn practice he is an angelAt games he is a GodCause he knows how to teach ballThrusting them after each conquerWhen the field lights go offThe ones in the locker room come onThe shower is his personal stadium Dusk    Wind has been caught trespassing forestThe trees are now bentWind claims that he was just giving a breezeNot a dusky blowDusky doesn’t blowDusky just loves childrenand ballBoys are ballshandled by a proBoys’ ballsare handled by a pro Horses and donkeys may look similarbut you can’t tell me that anal rape sounds like horseplayWhy were you showering with little boys anyway?Coaching ball must not have been fulfillingYou wanted to playto feel the sweltering brown in your palmsYou went in showers to be dirtyAnd football games still went onStudents in standsTrees at stanceThe Wind was seen and not heardKind of like how children are taught to be But what if wind was once just a bent tree?A horned angel who once had a halowho wasn’t kicked out of heavenJust screwed out of his Kingdom If wind was once a 10-year-old boy who only bent over when setting a play A 10-year-old boy who hadn’t begun to think of his back arched like a rainbowA 10-year-old boy who just wanted to play ballNot play with one If at some time wind did not blowThen we’re all just variations of Lucipher walking on clouds of smoke Heaven and hell look too much alikeeven when Dusk is brought to light The deforestation of innocence smells of burning crosses The trees are bentThe Wind is still The Wind still claims the same innocence he grabbed in his palmsRunning freely with dirty hands A little boy is not a football gameYou don’t touch down there