His toy grail broke. The holy shards flew wild,
covering his cold, quite maculate floor.
No one came to save him. The further side
stayed far off. He remembered how to pray
and tried that, but the toy cup still blocked
his path. He believed the myth of his door
for years. He’d build bridges with blocks and played
with paper boats, still shaping his small creed
of exodus that led through the unlocked
way out (he tried rebuilding the chalice,
but fingers failed). He learned that he could read—
children’s books just saved you from animals,
not a relic-paved floor. He grew fanciful,
praying his cell into a flawed palace.