From The Ashes

From the ashes of my beliefs

Awakes the child of myself,

Born into the moment.

Can he remain true

To the idealess

Realm of his beginnings

Or must he age

In the world,

Heavier with each moment,

Each new belief?

Is the ageing process

And stiffening up

An illusion

In which we dwell

Stiffer and more unwell

In the hardening carapace

Of personality’s

Hard work and upkeep?

Or is the child unblemished,

Cocooned in the now,

Eternally fresh,

Ideas burned to ash

Under his gaze,

Illusions

Nothing but ciders

In the presence

Of his presence?

2 thoughts on “From The Ashes

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