Children of the Air

"{They do} not hear;{they} will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

{They have} grown up and gone away,

And {they are but children} of air

That linger in the garden there."

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

 

where do children go when they’re grown? 

the innocent photos of smiling faces

are they all lies?

 

we are old we are old

to have those babes come back to haunt our elder time

with their cries and the horrors of their wounded souls

begging to be held and enfolded in arms

as the children they once were

and their dervish whirlings in the world

random strikes as of a hundred thousand knives

the darts of hatred

and unfulfilled desires

not our own but somehow left  behind

to twist like daggers in the psyche

fiery paths slicing through brain matter

slicing through what passes for persona

all a Mask of competence

overlying chasms of flame and flood

the tiny cold emptiness expands and

shuts down joy and light

receptors switched off

blot out the mental pictures

memories

loops run endlessly

of more uncomplicated days when smiling faces

cakes and candles

bare legs and superhero cloaks

made unscripted moments of laughter

spontaneous love and pride

Wait! are those shadows?

are those eyes lowered in some secret grief?

so hard to tell

to remember the exact moment

was there more to that afternoon

than sunlight patterns from the trees

than baby steps and childish glee?

looking back I see more

the lack of complication a lie told to self

in the morning of consciousness

before experience clouded

or embellished a life

certain in the knowledge

that the world would be saved by love alone

© 2017 pamela twining