Lost innocence

Who am I really?
This facade grows stronger,
but not of my own doing
The forces beyond me are merciless,
sculpting every line of my portrayal
The child within is fading
as the untouched stone
soon meets the cold steel chisel
Each year I cling to the
nine-year-old who knew all and well
There was no time, no past nor future
I cared not of reactions,
or others' beating impressions
I laughed without hesitation,
and cried without fear
My soul was real, alive as rain
and as grasses flowing in wind
My being was my own,
and not to be treaded upon
Where did it go?
Is it wise in age to know
how the soul melts with the universe?
Or yet wiser for the child
to be naive of such helplessness?
Each day, minute, second...
the etching on my face reveals
that naivety slipping away
I long for those moments
when I feel that child's breath
reaching from deep inside...
Those spontaneous reminders
that noone and nothing can change
The sweet smell of grass in Spring,
and the rustic mist before a rain

--Annonymous