Soapdishes filled with natural shells from the sea

Sit on the windowsill reminding of times past free

To skip through sand amongst slow-rippling waves

When I wore the naive eyes of a young child brave



Without the confliction and confusion of adulthood

When things aren't always so simple as dry cut wood

Which we throw on a fire to watch as flames catch 

Whilst the child of the past passed for he'd not a match



Taken away after foolish pranks had turned into tragedy

And the eyes of the child veiled over with the first to be

Followed then by other curtains drawn over windowpane

Which hid inside interiors soon overfilled with much pain



And as the child collected shells and flat stones from sand

The fast-forwarding of his life visited him from that stand

And those errors of judgment now filled his mind with awe

For so much evolved from a line of dominoes fallen evermore



Christopher W. Thomas

5:55am Tuesday 12/30/97