I could tell you that dying is an art,
An art I am learning fast.
I could tell you so many things,
but I better not.
In that school,I think you have picked up your
pencil to learn what books teach you..I think I
like that.
Maybe,between now and the eventual then,we
could play.
We will drive to fruit street,and park under
the falling rain of color,found on leaves
of October.
The wind will rake them,and we will plunge in,
falling together.
We will stare at the creatures made of cotton,
that lays against a blue canves that is ever
changing its faces.
I could tell you that life is not that sweet,
and most pay a heavy price for mistakes.
But,for now,we will play in this field of
make-believe,and I will pretend that you will
never feel the bitterness that is so close to your growing hands..
