Alone, as it started, as it should be.
Into his hands i pass, gently.
His sand seeps into my eyes,
gritted and foreboding adventures await me.
18, the number of adulthood,
but never yet have I felt more a child in an adults world.
Judged as a mature spirit, that still heaps milo with milk,
and i sit, as the last hours of my childhood roll swiftly away,
tumbling, slipping through my open hands.
It pangs me with a sudden sadness that, I
finally an adult, have no constrictions  to surround me,
only a number of roads, on which to start my adventure.