. . . . Window . . . .

We are (still)
a bunch of
children
in a bizarre playroom - full of shadows
surreal toys - that glisten - hide - shine - and ring . . .
I want to be there
again
behind - the the creature that lurks in the shadows of the sunlight
that enter the room - he who carries the shackles of time forward
I want to be there
with
those old toys - those old friends - I left behind
those captives in my past
the ones that look at each other - gathering dust
and ask . . .
"what did we do?"
"were did he go?"
"why doesn't he like us?" - "anymore"
"i'm sorry"
"come back" - "we won't do it again"
"we will be good" - "we promise"
they echo in children's voices
desperate
waiting for their parents
waiting for yesterday to return
when they were "real"
when they were wanted
when they were loved
I want to be that ape again
playing my cymbals - happily . . .
in the "window" of my monkey-house
I want to pull the shades open
and let the sunlight of yesterday
mix and blend with that of today
but . . .
you tell me now . . .
can . . . we - the childish bunch
. . . go forward and return . . . to our beginnings
and set them all free . . .
. . . . ? . . . .