You journey out into the world as midday's growing late,

And note the sun's direction.

You feel its waves of golden light, a flood that simply won't abate,

Recalling its affection.

The trees are swaying with the wind; a dance that seems purely innate

In all of its perfection.

The scent of grass comes hovering on breezes to accentuate

Your feelings of infection.

You frown at this and twitterings from birds you cannot tolerate.

They suffer from dejection.

For knowing that they bring you peace is just enough to aggravate

Your knowledge of detection.

For you, there's only pity from these things you've sealed outside your fate

By showing them rejection.

Sunlight,

Swirling,

Vapor

Curling,

Blackness

Whirling...

Then, rising like the mist from some dark, London, sewer-street,

There floats a horrid memory; a small cadaver's face.

Its bloodless lips address you, but you simply will not meet

Its hemorrhaged gaze, acknowledging the pain you won’t erase.

How can this corpse be haunting you? This child died long ago!

You laced your own grown fingertips around its throat and pressed.

Yet, still it lives and beckons, and just how you do not know.

You only feel the guilt because it will not let you rest.

Oh God! Its fragile arms that failed so wildly in the air,

The pure, angelic face that twisted with each cough and gasp.

The pendulum of spittle, blackened eyes and frozen stare,

The tiny form that tumbled lifeless from your loosened grasp.

And though this child; a testimony to its violent end,

Plagues you by still living in your heart and in your brain,

And though it clings to life, it was its death you did intend.

You're unredeemed, and still a cruel killer just the same.

Blackness

Reversing

Vapor

Dispersing,

Sunshine

Immersing...

Do you know what you've felt, or why its impact is so great?

You must see the connection.

That these sensations can't be quelled and never, ever will abate,

But still conjure affection.

That though they're chained to dormancy, yet every one is still innate

To childhood's own perfection.

Perchance, that you or someone else, might learn and live to deviate,

There's still time for correction.

You must be born a child again; to sense all and to celebrate —

The world's for your inspection.

The past's at your disposal, it's the drug to cure your future state.

Return. Take your injection.

You must set free the child, tear down the walls and crush the gate;

Freedom through insurrection.

Abandon your maturity; a concept that will seal your fate,

And turn in my direction.

To have the fearlessness of a child,

To scramble headlong into the dangers of life.

Welcoming all the delights

And all the demons,

The suffering,

The madness,

The love inherent in this world.

Taking a full draught of the chalices

Offered to all those who live and breathe.

Indeed, even unto gluttony.

Whether poison or panacea,

Devouring fever or cure,

All to attain the unknown.

To become one again with the sun and the stars.

To behold again the wonder and the romance of the earth,

And to preserve their pure quintessence in our souls

For everyone to know.

For only a child can be a poet,

And only a poet can have a soul.

Yea, and only one's soul can be alive.