opia

what joyful spirit this place betrays!
what happy soul it bleeds away;
a fancy free caught in my lashes,
puncture highs and small, trembling hands, placed
on my shoulders
in tiny, shocking ways;
abrupt, yes,
but
little earns my surprise nowadays.
what reaches out cross never lands
to never ends, we'll never see?
and no, not much lands on
ears bereft, or rather ears bereaved,
but a hold of hand would still my heart
and senses awed would reinvent
lifetimes of fragment dreams a child would believe;
ambitions gone, absconded with,
another end, another means,
to progress our hearts towards the sun,
because growing up means dying young