Objects in The Mirror Are Further Than They Appear

How can I put this

without sounding

as selfish

as I have always been?

I’ve been feeding a monster,

but this isn’t the way

it has always been.


If I had a time machine,

I would reach back

and change

one little thing;

I’d never have started

growing up,

I’d have kept

what I could

of my innocence.


We’re always rushing off

to hurt ourselves somehow.

The way we speed

and need to play around.

Running off to war,

or something more

destructive, how

do we expect to live,

when all our dreams

are in the ground?


We give up the universe

for petty pleasures.

Trade in immortality

for half the answers.

Get a life, a wife,

no time for

childish misadventures,

but we know inside

they’re just bleeding us out.

Was there ever any doubt?


That somehow we’ve been disconnected

from wonder,

from solace,

from awe.

We signed on the line for adulthood,

understood it was promised from God,

but we were deceived,

we were tempted

to believe

we concede to a flaw;

created with endless potential,

designed with no limits at all.


We were tricked

to give in to fear

and told how brave

we were.

Never saw the scissors in their hand,

as they pushed us out the door,

they snipped away the cord,

that connected us to our past.


I feel like there was an instant

where I lost my only chance,

to live forever,

in every world,

now I’ll never get it back.

Am I mourning the loss

of my childhood,

or just fondly lost in that,

memory of limitless

potential that I had.


HG – 2016

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