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?