A few hundred faces having passed on
by, the elements that make up truth
stay, still fewer new. The sweat clinging
to each brow making quieter runs along
the paths of old, the glimmer of mischief not
left behind like their books had once told us
to be true. Silent variations in the music we made
become far too subtle for these rational
thoughts, not once did the fanfare in the heat
remind us of what we'd promised to do.

Gritty scraping along the parched dust
of our sheets turns us away from taking the plunge,
these little tales locked within
refusing the games played without.
Talk of futile evenings and infinitely distant
dawns gives us the power to push aside
our shallow instincts, those that fueled
the imagination of children once.