The Introspective Child
It pays to remember the insights of the introspective child.
Antsy enthusiasm.
Incomplete comfort.
Clueless mystery.
Answers leading only to further inquiry.
I’m lost at the esoteric library.
Resolutions to a cliffhanger at the tip of my tongue.
Amusement.
Sentience.
And love.
The supposed folly of knowing.
Where would I be if I understood every blurred image?
The green and beige of an imagined field.
Patterns oscillating as I lay immobilised.
Daydreams paired with some internal beat.
Every groove of your smile hides cues for remembrance.
Invoking early flutters of an innocent heart.
Kindness.
Similarity.
And symmetry.
Failing to explain what is so swiftly felt.
Had we already met behind the tuart trees in days gone by?
What matters most remains hidden.
Restrained behind a wall so high and a voice so soft.
If I may share your radiance, we may find the courage to stray.
Through the familiar.
Through the absurd.
And through the dreamscapes of the introspective child.
