Empty handed, wrapped in a small white cloth,
A crying baby, handed to the father
whose eyes shine with happiness,
and huge dreams in the eyes of the mother,
Vaccines and medications, to keep
the tender life of the flesh mass in its fits,
the one that sleeps more than 12 hours,
the one with smooth, soft, tiny mitts,
It sits, then crawls, then stands, then falls, then walks,
It stutters, then mutters, then mumbles, then fumbles, then talks,
It Schools with its friends,
It matures with each new experience,
It thinks the world is small and colourful,
A world it masters with its brilliance,
Then it sees the real world,
yet it somehow adjusts and fits,
It earns a lot with excellence,
then It marries the love it meets,
It has its own perfect family,
with a love and a few kids,
It works hard day and night,
for the family it feeds,
then Its knees become weak with time,
It eats and sleeps less,
Its voice starts to die down,
Its becomes a wrinkled mass of flesh,
The talking now stutters, then mutters, then mumbles, then fumbles,
the walking now falls, then stands, then sits using walkers,
sleeps less than 5 hours,
who now has tired hard rough mitts,
Drugs and medications again,
to keep its tender trembling life in its fits,
And when the soul leaves the flesh,
Its son shoulders its coffin,
wrapped in a white cloth again, empty handed,
It came with nothing, it goes with nothing.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
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