There was a child who went forth everyday,

and the first object he looked upon,

that object he became,

and that object he became part of

him for a day or a certin

part of day,

or many years or stretching cycles of years.

 

The early sayings of mother's word became part of this child,

and the falling leafs of trees,

and those dying flowers from the garden,

and the eager cats waiting  to catch the birds,

and those mysterious looks on the faces of people as they

walk down the street,

and all those stormy nights,

all became part of her...

 

And the burning of fire

along the forests,

and the water seeping

through the ground,

and the evaporating water

as it turns into a cloud,

and the drowning of the,

roses, as the water came down.

 

The young boys arguing over the rocking chair,

And the mother arguing with

the father over so many things,

the father with those fierce words,

the furniture getting

tossed all over the place.

The possibilities of

the day never ending,

the mysterious lady who won't stop passing through

the front of the house,

trying to figure out

why she is, and where

she comes from

if we can't find her

out, then who can?

No one knows, as if

she were just an image.

 

All the silhouetes what to

do now where to go,

feelings of disturbed friends,

the anger of their hurting inside,

everyone saying they'r ashamed of some part of their lives

these become part of

the child who went

forth everday, and who

now goes, and will

always goes forth every

day.