Behind the photo of the boy on the rubble

The boy sits atop of the rubble of his home
His father lies silent twelve feet below
His infancy has fallen from that summit
The darkness chokes his gentle neck
Needles of despair push into him
Their sharpness kills his heart
Inside he feels all his organs shrivel  
His tears fertilize the mound
From them, a black flower seeds
Its delicate roots claw through the rubble
The child and the seed will grow together 
They will rustle under the painful light
The tree desires the space inside him
The boy loves the shadow of its light

The war photographer sees the boy 
sitting atop the rubble of his home
He does not see the father below
He knows only the boy will not look him 
in the eye, will not give him the right angle
To him, the boy is the emblem of a 
demolished country,  below  the
destroying coiled  metal, the objects
that once sheltered- the innards of 
concrete and steel poking through 
crumbled walls feeling the cold wind
The photographer urges the boy to pose 
in the thinker pose with one hand on hip,
imagine he’s offering the world a precious relic

Instead , the child squares his gaze
“Who is going to teach me,” he screams