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 yet 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.
Heartfelt….moving
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Thank you!
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You’re welcome.
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oh this is so sad … hope you can recapture some of that joyful innocence and curiosity that is essential for life 🙂
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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
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