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The depth of our knowledge is
based upon the stars,
and, what we soke in, while
driving in our cars,
The dirt stained streets,
the concrete floors,
The neverending locks,
that open our doors,
The violent mind of men,
and child,
the drive inside that makes us wild
The thrill seeking spectators,
the frozen steak,
the naked in a bathtub, and,
the sex that we take.
The fall and call of the worried and wild,
The small cry of an,
innocent child
The feeling we get inside our head,
the Jesus theory on which light was shed...
The depth of our being,
in a small tiny box,
the pain that we feel,
causing tremors and shocks,
It all makes us learn,
find out who we are,
without a single blood drop shed,
or a twinkle from a star.
So don't fret tiny baby,
who is cold,
for it is you who will understand,
when it is you,
who is old.
Erin M. McFarland
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