The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling.
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

-W.Shakespeare

Saturday, 23 February 2013

The Child Inside Will Never Die.

It occurred to us at dusk on the playgrounds of our past.
Standing atop frail wooden castles, 
Challenging the day for one more play,
Challenging the sun for one more hour of fun. 
The child inside will never die.
Child sentries at their posts. The ground is lava 
And we’re afraid to touch our feet to the ground.
We’re climbing like animals in the jungle gym.
We’re haunted by the knowledge that our primal joy 
Will end with the knell of the recess bell. 
We’ll stay till the giants dare to drag us away.
The child inside will never die.
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