Monday, February 07, 2005

Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind

Even Marilyn Manson on a Monday morning cannot shut out the sight of solemn, sad faces looking up at you in the morning train. Eyes old before time, whispers for voices, shoulders drooping with the weight of the morning, no sweet dreams to bring a smile to pursed lips. Childhood stained by the juices of life, begging to be set free.

2 comments: said...

Very poetic, no doubt. Those children that you write about so passionately - great for a flowery post on your blog, right?

What do you do about them? Other than write poetry, I mean! Ha!

Diviya said...

Sarcasm is like poetry, flows freely. I do not write poetry. And what I do about the children, well, thats for me to know.