We reach out for dolls
with withered hands.
Stooped over, we play
in the sandbox.
Ancient children,
so old, with innocent eyes,
we never grew up
in an aged world.
Time steals our hopes,
to have everything be alright.
The ticking of the clock goes on.
Yet we cling to youth,
not quite knowing how to mature
to where we need to be.

We are the adult children of dysfunction,
and we feel equal weights of young and old
balancing on our scales of self.
The hardships we endured
heap wrinkles upon our souls.
But we go on.

Ancient children,
we've been around forever,
relics in the nusery,
babes wrapped inside
the armor of adults,
feeling all so wise,
street smart to a cruel world,
but only pretending,
so naive,
Ancient children,
we become in reality
what we long to still believe.