Inner Child

It sleeps now as eyelids quiver
for what conscious child of any age
can be content with resting quietly
remain alive for one moment
void of one’s interrogatory?

Even with the night’s cold
the comforter is pushed away
restless thought
dreams—

Listening

From murmur to whisper
through silent breath to hyperventilation
a purging utterance drifts toward—

In the vacuum

Procreators choose to claim
may even believe their parental influence
on a child’s soul divine, while others know
spirit and its many voices
serves no attachment

And so

Such restless slumber
whether held tight in swaddling cover
or spooned atop nascent continuum
remains as always
anima mundi adjusting for the quiet

Perhaps

If the inner child speaks at all
it voices its wisdom beneath restless eyelids
that place where dreams reveal buried realities
often ignored