Rivers ripe with mothers milk, the veins of her great design splice for the creatures she bares.
A child\'s face, fresh, untouched by man\'s crooked scheme
A gaze that no power made can remove
A gaze of wonder
Of intrigue
Of unspoiled thoughts
Soon
Soon those thoughts will fade with made demands and false desires
Will he ever again dawn this face?
The face I had years and years ago
The face I now only remember when I catch it on my own child
In silent observance of innocence, not remembering its taste and witnessing a distant memory wash back out into the depths of lost ideas