Wednesday, August 5, 2015

The All-Seeing Lie

Everyone is an adult but me.
They seem so real, so fully formed,
as if I know their stories and their smells,
have lived their lives for them already, 
as if I know the eccentricity where they will fail.

Still I look in longing like the child I am,
eager to learn what illusions to believe,
what losses to sense, what fragments to call whole, 
as if, in every word I know before they speak it,
there is something not yet me.

1 comment:

the walking man said...

I wish--yet there is too much cynic left me now.