growing up
by scott from jail

I am not there, but I was there.
I do not do that, but I did it often.
I have no more of those, but once I was rich with them.
I know not how, but I used to.
I can not think, but I used to be convinced.
I was not real, but now seem even less,
as if the wind could carry me aloft
and with a sweep of hands, turn me to a bird
and then, not believing in it,
      Like a bit of starlight.
Like nothing I've seen before
                              or since.

Copyright © 2013 - scott from jail
Published: 6/20/13   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem