Bob

[trickyastampons]

I could tell Bob was a kid,
inside, with his colorful personality,
specifically in baby colors. 
His favorite, powder blue
like his glowing eyes.
He came from a country of great ambition,
growing up in the industrial towns
near the Ural Mountains.
The epidermis of his crooked fingers
were permanently encased with 
the grime and sludge of day in
and day out labor of digging ore. 
Beautiful, rich ore, its luster scent
chokes your throat of dollar bills.
With nothing to own, yet so much to lose,
Bob went home strong and true;
He knows they don't own his colors,
or the way he spells his name with a lower-case "b",
or the way he braids long leaves 
of grass to make a crown,
rich of the motherlands smell,
to cover the luster of ore when
he braids bracelets. 
He's a kid, alright,
oblivious to the pain and the abuse,
in the creation of his sanctuary, 
filled with red, and blue,
and green, and yellow...