Older

What was once surprise

Is now sinking in:

That the garden next door

Is a vanishing act

That the child in the horizon

Is bound to an impending pact

Just like me.

Their skin and mine 

Are lullabies of 

A sleep gone by

Their footprints 

Are struggles 

Drawn into a lie. 

The garden, the child and me

We are getting older

And blooming along

Like the smiling tree

Just maybe.