"{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
