The Lost Boy by Kirstin Klaus

Before Peter Pan became a legend, 

Before the pixie dust, 

And the countless adventures, 

He was just a boy. 

I know, 

Because I kept him. 

And I also let him go. 

He was my brother, 

And I his sister. 

I saw him born, 

From a cruel womb of a mother who never deserved him, 

And raised by others, 

I never truly trusted. 

I saw him grow, 

His ebony hair turn bright gold, 

His blue eyes shine with joy, 

His once tiny hands turned to one of a boy’s. 

We would play all day, 

In the springs dew, 

And the falls leaves, 

When he was still young and bright, 

And I an actor of a child. 

Because deep in my heart, 

I was broken. 

The pieces hidden by flesh and bone, 

The misery placed as a smile. 

I found no joy, 

For there was none to be found, 

Except in the little boy, 

Who I found running around my knees.  

But, 

As time went on, 

And he grew older, 

And I grew wiser and sad, 

We would no longer play, 

For my misery dragged me down to a dark hole, 

Even his shine could not pierce. 

Yet I loved him, 

And thought I could protect him from, 

The shadows that held me tight, 

By keeping it hidden from his eyes, 

And running away from his smile, 

Whenever I could. 

That was my worst mistake. 

While I was gone, 

And he was alone, 

A fairy clothed in dark leaves, 

Came to him, 

For play and fun. 

She shared stories with him, 

Of a land like we dreamed, 

Full of pirates and fun, 

Soon to have boys to play with. 

Yet, 

As she whispered her stories of old, 

She slithered her way into his mind, 

And wove lies of me, 

Into the stories she told, 

Each one like a blow to the soul.  

She told him that my misery, 

Was because of him. 

That the fun we had, 

Was never real, 

Because of the misery I kept. 

She told him that I never loved him, 

And only played with him, 

Because he asked, 

And I was too soft, 

To say no. 

He slowly changed, 

Taking in the lies, 

Like a sponge soaking water, 

And saw me in a different light, 

A red light, 

Full of hate and rage.  

I tried to tell him, 

The truth. 

That I was miserable, 

But I found my joy again in him, 

That he was the only bright light, 

In a home as dark as night. 

But the fairy, 

Had already twisted his mind, 

To the point of no return. 

She changed him, 

From the loving boy I knew, 

To someone I did not know, 

Or could identify. 

She promised him a land of freedom and fun, 

That cold winter day, 

When she flew in his window at midnight, 

And showed him the stars, 

That took him away from me. 

I saw his awaking eyes, 

And knew the truth was shown. 

Yes, 

I played with him, 

Yes I was his sister, 

Yes, 

I loved him, 

More than a sister could, 

And was going to leave me. 

In my misery, 

In my depression, 

Without his joy. 

And I, 

Would not see him again, 

See his joy light up the room, 

Hear his laugh, 

And never get to explain, 

Why I loved him. 

When I tried to though, 

He cried and threw the snakes in his mind, 

Shattering my heart, 

And his, 

So our pieces were intertwined between us. 

So, 

He left, 

Flying away to the stars, 

Away from the dark night, 

So that he may never be dragged down, 

By it again. 

I still see him from time to time, 

Now that I am older. 

I watch him from below, 

As I see him fly above the world, 

Taking boys with no joy, 

To the place he now called home. 

He is unbound by darkness, 

And sadness, 

Had not felt those things for a long time. 

Yet my heart was heavy, 

As I saw him up above, 

Without me soaring by him. 

I know he sees me, 

For I sit out on the porch, 

Sewing and knitting little things and that, 

Waiting for him to appear, 

For he fly’s above me, 

And investigates my window, 

To ensure that I am alive, 

When the fairy is not around. 

For that I know he loves me, 

And see’s my love for him, 

But he has duties of his own, 

As a brother to boys long gone. 

His legend spread high and low, 

To books to movies to campfire tales, 

Stories of his adventures, 

And his Lost Boys. 

Little did they know, 

I started those stories, 

Telling them to my children, 

And their children too. 

The stories have changed though, 

For I had not told a story of a man, 

Who wanted to be a child, 

And took children because they did not want to grow up. 

He was not like a father, 

More like a brother, 

He did not send the boys alone, 

But rather joined them in battle. 

No one knows except me, 

The story, 

Of the one they call Peter Pan, 

For when they call out for their Lost Boys, 

I cry out too, 

For mine. 

Because Peter Pan, 

Is my Lost Boy.