we stumbled through the dark
not knowing who
or what we were
swimming towards a finish line
we didn’t know was there
winning a prize
we didn’t ask for
or know what to do with

then for nine months
we grew in the blessed soil
of our mothers body
completely unaware
of being completely unaware

until a pair of hands pulled us
form the days of then
into the days that staked
into these days of now

once so small
we were not visible
to the human eye
how oddly we formed
in the ocean of our mothers belly
what strange things we become
(do you ever miss your tail?  I do...)

time seems a mischievous trickster
a dishonest magician
one minute a nascar driver
the next hour a lost snail
circling the same path

it seems we would remember
more of our first breath
the first time we saw
our mothers face
felt our fathers hand

we are far too old
by the time we can appreciate
how beautiful it was
to be an age where
we knew so little
yet believed in so much

how horrible it is to look back
and witness the ****** of magic
we once carried
in such great abundance

we are tricked into
this idea of growing up
horse pickles to that ship
I wont be sailing
on that boat anytime soon

adults are tragically misinformed
what they have gained
is not worth
what they had to give up

and it’s not that I still believe
in Santa Claus
its that I know the truth
of how he really is

its unfortunate how many parents
are too busy trying
to teach their kids
the this and that
of the that and this
of the world
too few know
how to sit still long enough
to listen and realize
how much their children
have to teach them
to remind them
of how precious and wonderful
it is to believe in the things
that are worth believing in
to remind them that magic
is a gift of love
and love is in everything
that is magic

how carelessly we fail to notice
the magic all around us
how willfully we waste
this short life
how many unnecessary
burdens we carry
how shamefully
we pass them down

growing old is inevitable  
and that in itself is a good thing
time maybe mischievous
and dishonest
the cuckoo clock may always
speak in fibs of hours
and fairy tale minutes
for the only time we have
is the only time it ever is

a brief pause of eternity
as we unknowing stumble
through this now
hardly aware of who
or what we are
or what to do
mistaking life for something
less than magic
instead of feeling how much
of it is filled with love