A notebook I've found
On my adventures as a journalist
Drew out my heart on the string
Of a tug-along toy.

This notebook was not one of the written word,
But of fantasy and fable,
Drawings of a forgotten child.

The boy--or girl, I could't really tell
Loved to think of Sunday meadows,
The stars of a winter's midnight
Pictures of bright spring daffodils lacing
The charm of a blank page.

As the notebook went along,
the child got older and in the sweet meadows,
children started to appear,
one by one.
In the must of the dusty room in this ancient house,
I imagined children dancing upon
The sunlight of eternity.

In the back of the house
Lay a cemetery
Stone mantelpieces subtly naming
The children in the pictures.

And at the end of the row,
An unmarked grave.
Tears filling my eyes as I flipped to the last used page of the notebook,
There was written:
"Crimson paint, the alley red, all is done and lost."


This is the tale
And the cost
Of the Doodles of a Forgotten Child.