was young once.
She remembered it so clearly.
Always on the brink of growing up.
Youth never stops to think of growing old.
Yet still it happens,
in another kind of instant.
A moment, a minute, an hour, a day.
Weeks into months into years, still they play.
Her childhood was serious.
More serious than business.
Exaltation into grief.
The playground was impervious
to any wish or want the sky inspired.
Looking without understanding.
Pictures flashed like shadows on a wall.
Moving on and on without a meaning.
A poet's glance. The questions asked.
The answers are too few and far between.
Yet she remembered it so clearly.
Those days of innocence.
Before man's timing stole her heart.
Imprisoned in their fencing.
She used to be young.
And the dream still lived on.
A wisp of love its only instrument...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...