Nostalgia

Those were days of sun graced fun;
of creamy skin turned caramel coffee
and attainable goals with prizes won.
Knowing nothing of nights lonesome
or how the sun could burn so coldly,

we moved with the waving of the seas,
gliding effortlessly on youthful wings.
Oh if only there weren't so many "if only's,"
aging the locks and rusting the keys
till naught remains but what hope brings.

Hope becomes the salvation of survivors,
leading with understanding the older soul;
souls long since wasted by slave drivers.
But reborn in hope and lost in the fires,
we pick the diamond stars from the coal.

We do not look through the same eyes,
forsaking mystery for printed empiricals
and mocking the child for how he cries.
Yet if we saw as children beyond our lies,
the world would be full of miracles.