The Boy
The boy, alone, stands by the door
With beads of sweat upon his brow
Gazing across the open moor
To better homes beyond the grass and leaves.
He wonders neither where nor how
But he believes.
The boy, alone, stands by the door
With hopes that, shattered, dim the skies
His padded feet that grace the floor
Long to wade in gentle brooks and streams.
Drops of sea bespeck his eyes
That tell his dreams.
The boy, alone, stands by the door
He rashly steps into the snow
Then turns upon his step once more.
He knows that years may come and make him old
But his dreams must wait, he couldn't go
When it is cold.
--August 3, 2004
With beads of sweat upon his brow
Gazing across the open moor
To better homes beyond the grass and leaves.
He wonders neither where nor how
But he believes.
The boy, alone, stands by the door
With hopes that, shattered, dim the skies
His padded feet that grace the floor
Long to wade in gentle brooks and streams.
Drops of sea bespeck his eyes
That tell his dreams.
The boy, alone, stands by the door
He rashly steps into the snow
Then turns upon his step once more.
He knows that years may come and make him old
But his dreams must wait, he couldn't go
When it is cold.
--August 3, 2004
