Childhood is defined by innocence,
since the little hearts only know of the beauty,
the beauty of the butterfly,
the beauty of falling leaves,
the beauty of mid-summer night,
the beauty of first winter snow.
It is when those hearts see the hurt,
the hurt in the aging wings,
the hurt in the cold bare tree,
the hurt in the harvested seeds,
the hurt in the melting flakes.
And for once, that heart desires,
for the moment to not happen,
but it is then they realize,
that they too are no different.
The young heart has faded into the background,
childhood a fleeting memory,
the love they gave, the memories made,
is but a chain of selfish actions to satisfy oneself.
Today was joyful, yesterday was painful,
who is to say we are to be here,
the see the days of ‘morrow.
A debt from the first breath, payed by the last,
the sand falls in the hourglass,
as the weight is carried and held to the heart.