We’re all just children, trapped in aging shells.
Mornings understand this truth the most,
as we rise with aches, pains etched into our bones,
tongues dry from the night's forgetfulness.
Still, we yearn for childhood joys—pancakes drenched in syrup,
warm hugs to chase away the cold.
My childhood held no such comforts,
but we are all still children, forever locked within aging bodies.
Those suffering from relentless illness,
chronic pain and silent syndromes, know this deeply.
I know it because I am an unwelcome guest,
a soul bound to a body that creaks and falters.
We don’t leave this life whole,
but in pieces, like oak, maple, and dogwood,
scattering their leaves with the winds of fall.