The Child

This process in which we are transfixed
By the lacy mirage of happiness,
Finds us constantly befuddled by a pressing,
Yet distant engagement.

Like wine poured from a clay jug
We are falling crimson sweetness,
One day to wash away the grieving, sticky
Shroud and see things clearly, as they are.

I was not born a wanderer in these
Industrial fields, a marginalised rage
In the gutters of mechanised truths,
We alone are here to tell our story,
We alone will rise or fall.

We may lay back and view the synaptic
Firework show, the arabesque commotion
Of the dreamers eye, freed now a child
In creations infinite arms.

The echoes of imagination are the conduit for joy,
For love, for finer twists of life,
To bring our souls down here and
Tuck it in at night, then study the many
Faces we hide.

There are new ways of living, new ways
Of loving, and as time wears us down,
Whittles us away, we are born anew
In the darkness we gave away.

The child, returns to nature
In the timeless language of laughter.

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