Where is the little boy? He came up to me.
He must be hiding. Running away from what he fears.
Never did we decide to hold him so tight.
Never did the child know he could put up a fight.
The agony cause by a prick.
The dolor in his eyes.
Set him right, he said.
When he will speak, he will forget.
The Pensieve grows shallow with age,
with time, a handful of memories remain.
They evince happiness and pride,
subtle anguish and vain.
But he knew the child would grow up to love and hate,
just like the others, he would run.
From fear and from villains.
From darkness and from rain.
But droplets of water will make him see,
someday, a past he lived to see.
A past with an older man.
A past that he thought would set him free.
But life's a bitch, it keeps you uptight.
Full of yourself, yet lacking belief.
In cows and bells, some find relief.
Others find humour, go overboard.
Crack others up, and continue to run.
He spoke to us on a rainy day,
with the droplets of rain on his specs.
Devoid of regret, we greeted him,
he smiled, and hugged us, the cocky bastard.
Said he erased a lot of what he knew,
rewrote his past, marshmallows ,angels and little houses with trees that he drew.
He pecked his wife goodnight,
tucked in his son,
and googled Sodomy.