Illuminate

On occasion

A discordant rare twang of jagged, mismatched notes

Erupts from Ashley's black room,

But he must be dressed in all nylon

To protect himself from the itching stabs of fibres

In a world made petrifying by others’ expressions

Failing to understand why they don't have a manuscript like you

Failing to love like the films say one should

Failing to compare his black box to their wondering minds

‘He’s quirky,’ my mother says.

He is not illuminated

Like dust floating in a slit of light in a black box

In the way the specks of nothing are illuminated.

But he has found new means of expression

In the dark that we could never find

And in his black box of expression

He is a beautiful, small, silvery, glittering rocket amongst inky stars,

More free in the dark than we are