To hold a candle in one's palm And let the wax drop into a soul that yearns for brightness; To polish off a set of silverware That is set in the back of the china cabinet; To these actions does one owe the breadth of sincerity Reached only by the mobile and task-less mind. When I was a young child, Cloud scanning was naught but a foolish game That only the sloth did chance to play. Yet white pirate ships and marshmallow fantasies Would still laugh and dance just out of my stunted reach Until my tangled shoelaces tripped my idleness into An emerald green oblivion as my knees met ground. Parallels exist when one matures; It's just as easy to trip over a pair of high heels. To what end, then, do we owe the dusting off Of the old mahogany boxes of memories? To which source do we credit the rolling film That replays childlike nostalgia through a sepia tinted lens? To the wonders of the mind and the memories within, We owe our deigning to produce and beginning to dream.
just a poem I had to write for a class I'm enrolled in