The Cultivation of a Child

The illustrious joy of waking at dawn
Realizing the world
Uncultivated,
Every shadow
Whispered secret
Attempts at harvesting
The yearnings
Of my persona.

Dressing haphazardly
Enough that animals
Might
Look down
Upon me was not of concern,
One day
I might learn
That my mismatched socks
Were not grinning back at me.

Racing
Down
The
Stairs,

The beige marble
Reflected the light
Of a thousand suns,
Maybe more
It seemed so bright,
Enough to sprout plants
By the millions, a figure
I could not decipher.

In a room of ten, there were maybe
Fifteen, the smells of pine,
Cardamom
Cinnamon and cayenne.

I began to recite
from
the
bottom
Of my heart,
All the rhymes I knew
Before I did restart,
My father beaming proudly,
Amused with my shenanigans.

Approval is something I needed not,
I praised myself,
Even when I forgot
The lines to the rhyme,
Making up my versions
That did not yet exist.

Blue railings of the stairs
My jungle-gym,
Instilled the roots of a desire
Made me squeeze
between the gaps, a silly impulse
For an adult perhaps, but yet I was a child.

A loving voice
Weakened
the hold I had on the blue,
And so I let go, only to
Lunge
Below,
Into the arms of my uncle,
Creased his stubbled face into the manicured smile I so adore.

He took me to his chariot,
Though in truth
It was a car, but little children have imaginations
That no one else can mar.

My vitality decreased with time,
My spirits did grow dim,
The sprig who
Thought he was thinking big,
But yet it was a nothing more
Than an insignificant idea,
a mere
sapling whim.

And when I, a boy
With curly locks, I tumbled
Back to bed,
My mother sang a melody
To help me get some sleep,
The words to the song
They faded away
Though those memories aren’t so bleak.

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