Asleep

In the land of make believe
There is no hurt, there is no one to deceive
Air brushed kisses, static smiles
Hits and misses, paid by plastic
Echo has no voice,
A reflection for Narcissus
Entwined in a dance
Undone by Nemesis

Would that the heart so deeply
Buried under layers of dirt
Like Beauty asleep in soul less slumber
Refusing to weep, unable to remember
Slowly the child
After years of knocking
Stays silent
Never to speak

—Shaku Selvakumar © 2009

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Asleep

Photo courtesy: http://www.fotosearch.com

I had recently put up a status update on my FB wall that went something like this ” What did you want to be when you were 7? Pray tell…”.  I got comments from friends and family ranging from gatekeeper at a movie hall, to firefighter, to railway guard, to steam engine driver, singer and a couple of my girlfriends surprised me by saying a cop, a race car driver.  My lovely friend Mary, had obviously given this more thought.  She said and I quote “Princess of the Entire World! then architect, then movie star. Now, world renown, but reclusive, mystery novelist.”

My point being, that when we were younger before those dastardly hormones hit…you know pre puberty, we saw the world differently.  When girls and boys played in the sandbox without worrying about pink and blue.  Dreams were dreams.  They were straight from the heart.  Not grey, pragmatic, confined.  They were bold and they were always recited with great intensity.  My youngest daughter wants to be an ahhdventurer or when I don’t buy her the latest Lego set, she wants to be an “ahntrapranoor”.  She says it like this…AHHnthrapranoor.  She knows there is a  big Ahhha in that word.

But somewhere along the way, many of us fell asleep and locked the inner child out.   Sometimes you really need to take that trip to meet your “7 year old” and have that conversation.  And your art will spring directly from your heart when you take the filters of your mind off. 

Asleep

In the land of make believe
There is no hurt, there is no one to deceive
Air brushed kisses, static smiles
Hits and misses, paid by plastic

Echo has no voice, 
A reflection for Narcissus
Entwined in a dance
Undone by Nemesis

Would that the heart so deeply
Buried under layers of dirt
Like Beauty asleep in soul less slumber
Refusing to weep, unable to remember
Slowly the child
After years of knocking
Stays silent
Never to speak

—Shaku Selvakumar © 2009