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Child
by Richard VinceIn the cupboard by my bed,
Nothing magical awaits discovery
By small, questing fingers
And bright eyes enraptured by
The astounding patterns woven
Into a fairytale.
Someone I once knew never wanted
The story to end, so she
Never read the closing chapters,
Keeping the enchanted land
Forever protected in the aspic
Of her mind's eye.
Behind her weary eyes,
Their darkness revealing in their
Nature something of what they hid,
Lived a soul buried ever deeper
In the long, sunlit days and
Fantastical beauty of
A million stories she never
Finished reading; they ran
Perpetually as she lived them,
Kept warm in a blanket
Of the words she read.
Once, I knew something of
The child at play within
The woman who thrust herself
Into adulthood without
Knowing what she did.
I wanted to coax the child
Back into the world by
Making it a place fit for her,
But I know now that she
Would never have been
Happy here.
Still, I hear that husky,
Womanly voice telling me of
The child's adventures and
Wish I had listened.
05/23/2005 Posted on 06/01/2005
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Amy Niggel on 06/03/05 at 02:17 PM I like this one alot, reminds me of how I write poetry in books, I always start from the front and the back so I never really write the end, because the end is somewhere in the middle... but then again I never want to be an adult so its ok |
| Posted by Bethany Lee on 05/16/08 at 01:49 PM This one was SUPER deep for me. I'm in a child-turning-adult crisis. Do I really have to let go of my childhood fantasies because I'm a living-breathing-working-mother-adult now? |
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