THIS they do —
organize chaos
in loving fashion
written in soul’s ink
with the deepest passion
under fog and as much
touching a leaf with
brown veins in Fall’s
wanderfuling aft spits
my child-knees running
sprinting toward those
(whenever did love shape
like green?) trees! i smell
my youth like a bubblegum
smile neverKnowing the horror
yet to greet my adultHOOD
:as then, as so, as rightly so
Adults are DEAD CHILDREN
:: 09-10-2015 ::
