Our adult selves are so cunning
Are they not?
They hide from the child inside us
And on occasion
Play hide and go seek
With them
In the most peculiar of ways
Taunting them almost with the
Promise that one day the baby
In their hearts will outgrow the
Adult on their surface
Placing hope in snow-globes
On high shelves with grown-up arms
So that the child, if it were to
To seek more than hide still
Could not reach it
And in its seeking would bang on the shelf
That the adult knew to not do
And the snow-globe would fall and crash
On the floor
Leaking out glittered blood
And broken crown-shaped pieces of glass
That only an adult is allowed to pick up.