METAMORPHOSES
The room was too dark to go anywhere near
a place for armies ghosts and devils,
Later, I knew, it wasn’t them, was just My fear.
Was always on the lookout for a shiny new toy
the pleading eyes, the tantrums and then anguish,
It was all well justified, I was just a little boy.
All things that hurt me were stones or walls
the words and wounds were for the Big,
The tincture would cure me and that was all.
Cried so hard but there were never any tears.
Laughed so hard that there were never any fears.
The fights lasted just for a second
and the grudges, half that time,
The joy we had, could last us a lifetime.
Questioned to the limits of our imagination
that’s how we learnt, that’s how we grew,
Well to the curious mind’s satisfaction.
But now,
Am still afraid of darkness and its din
but there’s something different now
It’s not the one Outside, it’s the one Within.
Still get hurt and wounds are as sore
not by walls but by failures sharper than stones
And worse, the tincture not effective anymore.
The questions, now, are tough to find
the doubts, though undoubtedly remain,
The curious case of the (not-so)curious mind.
Some of us age; a few just change in size.
Many of us just get old, only a few wise.
Some of us mature, take life in our stride.
But Blessed are those who have the little child Inside.
