Age will not define
the frown below the brow
wrinkled grace behind the smile.
Bones brittle of fractured rust,
ashen skin of flushed with dust,
heart eroded ,slow clatter of a Victorian metronome.
Do you like tea,sweet child?
Or baked gingerbread from the oven hearth?
A millennium I have lived,
with the song of childrens' laughter,
glee and merriment in juvenal Queen's tomfoolery.
Whence does one hidden in the wildwood,
Gallivant free, subservient of
antiquated epoch
or archaic time.
The bedlames call,
shall mute the silentium of a child's soverienity.
