My mistrust, I suppose, stems from a youth,
full of, child like dreams, hopes and wanting.
To stand on sturdy branches, only to have them felled
From beneath your feet. Words spoken with…feeling
Lulling you, Yet entwined with, half-truths and lies.
Like roaming into a dark forest. The child is innocent,
Seeking those long forgotten heroes, who fought
Gallant battles on snow White horses, whose hoof-marks
Are just glistening pools of water. The adult weary of,
Lurking dangers, who…should protect. Not join in.
Call it what you will, they are still foreign words
Spoken from an English tongue, framed in an English smile
You learn, slowly, that things are not always what they seem
Escaping, may seem impossible. The forest is not impenetrable
The wooden gate may be locked, but there is always a stile nearby.