no longer contented
with frivolous things,
like cracker-jack boxes
and mood-colored rings,
i sit and i listen
as a mockingbird sings
of a boy forming glory
from papers and strings.
the world with its wisdom,
and knowledge,
and hope
knows not of the bliss
with which children elope,
as they dance and they sing
on life's untethered rope
and remind us
of frivolous things
now remote.
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