As in the fading of my childish dreams,
When trees bore fruit of sorrows grim,
The day is not as hopeless as it seems.
All that yearning filling sloppy reams,
But paper yellows and ink will slowly dim
As in the fading of my childish dreams.
The child is grown, the light that gleams
Once shone so bright, the rays so slim:
The day is not as hopeless as it seems.
The burning born of childhood’s anguished screams
Are embers now, forgotten words from godless hymn,
As in the fading of my childish dreams,
That pain, now healing, denies its erstwhile themes
To one whose soul’s not rent from limb to limb:
The day is not as hopeless as it seems.
Those tales are done: They will not help the schemes.
Pour out the past–a chalice filled to brim!
As in the fading of my childish dreams,
The day is not as hopeless as it seems.
— ptkh 052419