7:11 PM, LONDON, ENGLAND

Sometimes, I think of when I was a child. Poetry was magical then, and the magic of some of those times makes me weep. That beauty seems remote now, ground to powder beneath the crushing weights of doubt, debt, and division. But oh, when I was young! Nostalgia! Notice the suffix which means pain. The pain of not returning to the idyllic past.
The postman can fly,
I saw him do it once,
Running from a weiner dog.
I used to play in nature. The freedom to run and breathe as fast and as free as I could was intoxicating in its simplicity. I sat at the feet of ancient masters, the trees, teaching me in their swaying silence the ways of growth and harmony and protection of those beneath you.
From the center,
Radial expansion layers strength,
In a black night.
I don’t get to see trees much anymore. I wish there were more trees.