Days rush by, like long-lost toys…
Where did they go?
Have they vanished in the garden,
hidden by weeds,
nestled in the white whiffs of thyme?
Maybe lost behind cushions,
rusting, resting—
only to be found when the fascination
once held for them
has grown old and withered.
No longer prized or possessed.
Purposeless.
Lost to decay,
their gleam now lacklustre.
Moribund mounds, mourning their youth—
childish potential, all grown up:
mature, but lifeless,
locked in a lackadaisical languish,
Puer Aeternus spent,
still wondering.
Where did they go—
those marvellous toys?