Coming back home

I see the little boy, insouciant –
on a worn swing, so carefree, full of heart –
not bothered if the ground splits; set apart –
in worlds devoid of fate – nirvana sent –
the football’s in the corner, reverie –

begs, urges him to Neverland, to life –
to youth forever lived, and hope held strong –
like amulets that right all treason, wrong –
then layering trees with gold – autumn rife –
all while he swings, not looking more than he –

should see. Oh, how I long for youth’s glint, glow –
to burn within, an inner clarity –
eyes blazing – deep refining purity –
a turn – beatification: soft, slow –
a coming back that helps me just unsee –

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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