By the blush of the fire,
he settles and endeavors thoughts.
Constructing a perplexity,
clenching his doors,
and aspiring, that one day,
his fire won't burn out.

Pen in hand, he writes.
Scrawling memory, in time.
He's searching for something
he was defaulted long ago.
It's here, in the mind of a boy
who ripened to a man.

Lost innocence, too soon,
and took up the weight,
of a household. His own.
Sitting now, warming,
he shifts away, to find.
A boy who can never recur.

02/12/2004

Posted on 02/12/2004
Copyright © 2024 J. P. Davies