I fear
Some dull edged blade
Has worked
a wound,
Scarred
a sound mind.

Now,
By some chance,
You come.
And respite you shall have.
Because I,
Have such abundance
Of care.

Sleep well,
Dear child.
Sleep,
Until youth’s woes
Are borne aloft,
On scented dreams,
And hope for naught
But hope return.
.
.
.
.
.
© WhatHabit Co. and Words For Leaving, 2010 to 2016. All rights reserved.

Youth