Oh,
to be a child.
To be,
tethered deeply to imagination.
Oh,
how such indeed,
never changes.
One,
simply imagines,
war,
death.
One,
simply imagines,
reasons for hollow stomachs.
One,
imagines religions,
countries,
traditions.
For,
be there,
no owner's of earth.
Be there,
no beings tethered to each perceptual paradigm.
Be there,
truly no script in hand.
No,
reason to be deemed,
anything other than,
human.
I shall forever wonder.
Wonder,
of those intensely tethered to this,
monotonous play.
Wonder,
shall such,
have mind?
Shall such,
exist as,
awake?
Sleep,
forevermore.
Be there,
nothing within one's soul.
For,
to be external,
to be a child,
nevermore...
©yungb123
Y