We were but children


We were but children, I reckon:
living in our own fantasies,
laughing at our own jokes,
crying at our miserly miseries.

In those childish days, I used
to find your smile contagious.
It was like a sweet disease,
painless, yet so dangerous.

We were but kids, I suppose:
playing games, always smiling.
No one imagined life a play,
a sinister err, almost killing.

And here we stand separated,
forever, travelling,
forever, in opposing directions.
But children know not the pain of parting.

So, we grew up into adults, I reckon:
knowing not how to smile
or play games or live.
We just pass through this life-senile,
knowing not who we are,
what we want, what we live for.

We just pass through this stage,
looking for ourselves, finding no more
than mere trinkets to keep our hearts beating;
and through life, let our minds keep running.

A/n: The artistic photograph inspiring this post was a piece by Joana Kruse titled “Growing up”
It can be viewed here: http://fineartamerica.com/featured/growing-up-joana-kruse.html


  1. Tonia · January 6, 2014

    children know the racing pleasures of fun distractions…and adults have to stare blankly at the realistic potholes of family duties.

    Trinkets have steely reflections of our natures.. and they lack warmth…so we sit in our new mercedes, behind the wheel, as tears drown our blank stares of nowhere to go.

    • anumshafique · January 7, 2014

      And somehow Tonia, you captured the essence behind my poem better than I could! Very true!
      And for this, I thank you!

  2. Maureen Wambaire · February 25, 2014

    Life well captured… beautiful piece this is.

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