I
would be cunning if I were to say,
“The
second childhood does not bother me,
I
do not care ‘bout keeping it at bay,
I
won’t be troubled should I live to see
Its
cruel effect on my petite grey cells,
My
somewhat high (if questionably) mental
Capacity.” True, as the time propels
Me
toward the finish, I get sentimental –
I
love my brain. Yet, I would gladly choose
The
soft’ning of its squiggly-wiggly matter
O’er
hardened heart. I would not bear to lose
My
quirks and laugh lines, specially the latter –
I’d
go all wrinkly lest I fail to joy
In
things like puddles, fireflies, or a toy.
Live
for the Love of it,
Happy