The Little Guy

Another foray into the dark
Into the cortex, into the heart.
Slowly peel the massive bark
And call the dripping ooze expressive art.

Inside a little chamber you have found
a little person with dewy eyes,
Curled up and by flimsy strings bound
In darkness while your adult self rhymes:
This is me, this is I,
I’ll keep saying it till I’m dry.

The inflated eyes turn you away
From that self – deflated and forgotten.
The memory of it still holds sway
On everything your adult self has begotten.

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