We weary--too easily-
the same old grind
of day and time-- the ennui-
nothing seems to assuage the mind-

we worry--so frequently
peace seems so hard to find
to love, laughter and joy
our eyes are dim and blind-

we blame-- so unreasonably
whether the person stands in front or behind
discontent tears apart our inside
we have hardened and ceased to be kind-

how I long for  those moments so tenderly
when I was a child with so much innocence and wonder combined
where has fled the vision, the dream, the smiling sunshine?
some vague melancholy  has settled in that couldn't be defined.