The boy was sitting on the grass,

eyes looking past the trees.

His words played with mass,

falling. or flying with ease.

 

He followed the sunlight where it led

down a path for the brave and afraid.

There was no need for the comfort of bed

nor the smell of a home far, far away.

 

He must have been lost, I thought,

a product of curiosity.

Told me, I’m not lost, I brought

my journal and pen with me.

 

He held it out and turned a page,

revealing his childish mind.

I saw writing free from chains, no cage

held it from the sky.

 

He said these words were maps

of the world beyond his door.

Remember: this universe is a broken gasp

of impossibilities to ignore.

 

His words untangled the strings

between chocolate and broccoli.

They were the essence of human beings,

unraveling Life, the greatest mystery.

 

Whether earth, wind, fire, or frost,

the darkest night or brightest day,

this boy is never lost.

His pen maps the way.

 

I gazed upwards, where the birds fly,

with my journal and pen in hand.

This, this is the reason why I write --

to explore the world of Man.