An Old Photograph of Me

It’s me
But much younger, perhaps ten.
Blush cheeks, more hair,
No wrinkles, no scars, no limp
And none of that deception at every smile
That has sunk to my very core draining me
Of every substance that I cherished.
Is it still me? Or someone else? This photograph
Is but a dead thing but I envy
The child that was me.

It’s me
But from another age, another life, another world
For I can see he sings
A strange song in a tongue
I have never known
And his feet dance to a rhythm unknown.
This child is not me.
It is a Ghost that I long to be.
Woe, I grow old to be human
And all I disdain.

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5 Comments Add yours

      1. V.J. Knutson says:

        You’re welcome.

        Like

  1. calmkate says:

    oh this is so sad … hope you can recapture some of that joyful innocence and curiosity that is essential for life 🙂

    Like

  2. Ananda says:

    Watching the world unfold
    without the burden of ideas or compulsion of words
    is what lent to that child’s smile
    its original innocence
    you are neither the old man in the mirror
    scarred and wrinkled
    nor the wistful memory
    of the child that was you
    but the one
    that watched then
    and watches now
    unchanged
    untouchable
    indescribable

    Liked by 1 person

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