Uriah

Uriah: light of the world, a golden friend on his chest, stitched into his being like a memory. Books in hand, pencil shavings all down his front, a smile on his velveteen lips, his chipped tooth gleaming in the sun. He sighs the summer out. His days are numbered in setting suns, in beaches he will never see, in stark, austere walls and brick buildings.
Uriah: a shell of 13 years, eyes smudged in charcoal, warm honey irises vibrating through his skull. A gaunt face, a lonely ghost, a shadow of who he once was. Shoved into a shoebox, pressed into a wall, hidden in the open air. He sucks up frost through his punctured left lung. His days are colored red and white, blood and snow, fire and ash.
Uriah: desiccated, barren landscape, tongue twisted out of his mouth, lolling as if out of boredom. Spindly fingers resting on his chest, over his heart, around his love, curled and clutched about a dream. Dirt under his fingernails, tangled in his hair, beneath his eyelids. His arms are angular, crooked, bowed and thin like a pile of sticks, a pen on a desk, a rifle leaning against a door.
Uriah: my brother, a blessing, a glow, a light. 
A Light. 
The Lord is my Light.