In the garden I knelt as a young boy, with dirt-caked nails that dug deep in the soil. Searching for neither coins nor toys that would take away my childish coils. Instead I search for the worms and birds Who whispered to me secrets of their tiny world: that if you listened closely to the hum of the earth, you would learn to fly across the universe. Now I kneel before the ground once more, grasping for the soil until my fingers are sore. Even if I sit still and watch the flying birds, I still cannot hear the hums nor the chirps. As I grow more but my days grow less, I cease to hear the whispers of innocence.
Yay sonnets! Oh, and just to clarify, I am not a guy.