oh how we dream of days of yore
how quickly we grasp for
that which duly lies in the past
that which has never grown old
that which relish in little joys
we hold on to them
as if childhood had once again
returned
but maturity calls
rather it beckons us
forth
and so we hopscotch
and jumprope our way towards
the land of ties and suitjackets galore
is this not to be guffawed?
little children walking about
pressed collars and windsor knots
khaki pants and shiny shoes
a game of dress up
that can't be all?
as we walk through
marbled halls and
glance dauntingly at doric pillars
legs stretch and arms strengthen
to fill brown loafers of
businessmen and doctors
professionals and tradesmen
soon after, as we grow
lives becoming evermore complex
childhood, seemingly a hazy door at the beginning of
a long, long hall
as doric pillars turn to ionic columns
we wear out these tiresome clothes
which sloth off to reveal
that inner child
crying.
Only then do we understand that
before the revolving door and grand hall
the childhood which we all dreamt for
was the most corinthian of all.
